


turn a little faster; the world will follow after

by katiemariie



Series: the world's a little brighter [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Ableism, Alien Culture, Canon Disabled Character, Cardassians, Child Abuse, Childbirth, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Government Conspiracy, Humor, M/M, Post-Canon, Revolution, Telepathy, Trills, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 09:17:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 74,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiemariie/pseuds/katiemariie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Julian and Ezri break-up, their lives and the fates of two species are irrecoverably altered. Ezri and her lost love Lenara try to start over again while stumbling their way through their role as leaders of a Trill expatriate revolution against the Symbiosis Commission. Lonely and grieving the loss of his found family at DS9, Julian infiltrates the volunteer corps assisting in the Cardassian relief effort in a bid to rescue Jack, Lauren, and Patrick, who were apparently kidnapped from their institution by Elim Garak. Of course, things are more complicated than they appear, as they always are with Garak and Julian's mutant friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something's Started Crazy, Sweet and (Un)known

**Author's Note:**

> The biggest thanks in the universe to Ian (badplanmobile), my beta, for being there throughout this entire process from when I was just conceiving the idea to when I was scrambling to finish the story on two hours of sleep. You rock and are very awesome.
> 
> Thank you also to aragingquiet and crookedbajorans on Tumblr for talking to me about the politics of foreign aid (vis a vis Cardassia) and how Ezri and Lenara are meant for each other, respectively.

They say there are moments that change your life—mere seconds of action or inaction that alter the course of destiny forever. Julian has never truly bought into that idea. Capable of seeing cause and effect to a higher degree than most humans, Julian doesn't divide life into discrete moments but rather sees it as a chain of related events all building upon each other to create the present.

There is one exception when all time seems to slow and the present solidifies into a single moment like a photograph taken by an antique camera. Even as it happens, Julian cannot deny the transformative power of the moment.

He and Ezri are walking down the Promenade on their way to lunch, discussing their latest trip to the holosuite. (“Discussing” is putting it lightly. More like “arguing.” After four months of playing the Battle of Thermopylae, Julian can't seem to stop comparing Ezri to Miles and Ezri can't seem to stop psychoanalyzing Julian's holosuite habits.) Ezri stops dead in her tracks. “Oh my god.”

Julian looks back at her. “Don't be like this. Just because I suggested you play a Persian—”

“No, look.” She points down to the level below where a crowd of people fresh off the latest transport are making their way through the Promenade.

“What?” Julian scans the crowd, picking up on a familiar face. “Is that…”

“My wife,” Ezri finishes.

Below, Lenara catches Ezri's eye and smiles. Ezri waves.

And that's it. That's when it all changes. A smile, a wave, and the world—two worlds, really—change.

The enormity of the moment is lost on Ezri, who tugs on Julian's arm. “Let's go down and say hi.”

He follows her silently, caught by himself in a temporal flow that makes seconds pass torturously slow (he can hear his heart beat and feel the blood coursing through his veins as they wait for the turbolift) and days fly past him (in three days, he will be sad and alone on a space station that no longer feels like home). As they inch closer and closer to Lenara, ominous drum beats of a Klingon opera pound in Julian's head, signaling his doom, his tragic downfall.

“Hi,” Ezri says.

“Hi,” Lenara responds.

“You look good.”

“So do you.”

“Oh, well, you know, new body.” Ezri titters nervously.

Lenara finally notices him. “Dr. Bashir.”

He nods. “Dr. Kahn.”

“It's good to see you again. Both of you.”

“Likewise. What brings you to Deep Space Nine?” But Julian's gut knows the answer. “If you don't mind me asking.”

“I do, actually. It's a very long story. It would bore you to tears, I'm sure.”

“You could tell us over dinner,” Ezri interjects. “Tonight.”

“I wouldn't want to impose.”

“Not at all. Julian and I were planning on Quark's tonight anyway.” She fails to mention that they are planning to visit Quark's holosuites, not eat dinner.

“That's sound great. What time?”

The minutiae of dinner arrangements blurs into the pounding of a dowel on a blank stage. _This is the end. This is the end. This is the end._

–

Upside down, Kira stops just short of her desk. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Ezri grunts, blood pooling in her face.

Kira cocks her head to the side. “Who's telling you to do that?”

“Emony.”

“The gymnast?”

Ezri tries to nod her head but that doesn't seem possible from her position. “Standing on her head helped her calm down.”

“What about you?”

“Not really, but I thought this would work because this is a Dax problem, not an Ezri problem.”

“Is it working?”

“A little bit. I don't feel like puking anymore.”

“That's good. I don't want to give Sisko back his office with stained carpets.” Kira leans back on her desk, resting her hand on Sisko's baseball. “What's the matter?” She tosses the baseball once, twice, three times in the air.

“Guilt. I have eight lifetimes of guilt, including my own.”

“Eight? Shouldn't that be nine?”

“Joran was incapable of remorse. That's probably for the best. I mean, not for the people he murdered obviously, but for me… That's probably a little selfish.”

Kira smiles. “Just a little.”

“That's the problem…” Ezri rolls out of her headstand, sitting slumped on the floor facing Kira. “I'm horribly selfish for a Trill. I want Lenara when she doesn't want me when Julian does want me and—”

“Lenara? Your wife Lenara? You're having feelings for her again?”

Ezri nods. “I don't think I ever stopped. But when I saw her today, I just—”

“She's on the station?”

“—wanted to grab her face and kiss the living daylights out of her. Right there! In front of—”

“Wait, on the station?”

“—Julian! And Lysia, the jumja vendor!”

“ _So_ , she is on the station?”

“Yes! She says she'll be here indefinitely, so I can feel nauseated constantly for the foreseeable future. Ugh!” she groans. “I am so mad I died.”

“Which time?”

“Torias. I was so stupid! I had _everything_ , but I had to go and fly that stupid mission knowing the shuttle wasn't ready and now he's dead and I'm alive and Lenara and I can never be together and I'm left with nothing.”

“Except for Julian.”

“Right. Except for Julian.”

–

“Jesus, Julian! Were you raised in a barn? It's two in the morning here!”

His ears ringing, Julian turns down the volume of the subspace transmission. “Sorry, Miles. I—”

“You're damn right you're sorry. I have to get Molly ready for school in a few hours. And then I have class until five at night. The whole bloody station better be burning down for you to call me like this.”

Julian smirks. “I thought you said we weren't allowed to call you with engineering problems anymore.”

Miles snorts. “That's right. So, you've got no reason to be waking me up with a high priority transmission.”

“I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I'm going out of my mind about Ezri.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Nothing's happened, but there was a moment today when I was convinced with absolute certainty that she was going to leave me.”

“What? Did Captain Boday come swooping into the station reciting Klingon love poetry?”

“No. Lenara Kahn.”

Miles' lips droop into a frown. “Oh.”

“We're having dinner tonight.”

“The three of you?”

“Yes.”

“That's bound to be awkward.”

“It's bound to be hell! I'm going to spend the entire night imagining the two of them together.”

“If it makes you feel any better, Quark'll probably be doing the same thing.”

“I'm serious, Miles. I… I've tried calculating the probabilities and the only answer I've come up with is that I'm _terrified_ , and however irrational this all is, I need someone to tell me that I'll be fine. That I'm overreacting.”

“Julian. You'll be fine. You're overreacting. Better, now?”

“Actually, yes.”

–

“So…” Ezri drums her fingers on the table—the same table Jadzia, Lenara, and Julian sat at for their dinner date all those years ago. They are even sitting in the same seats. That does nothing to quiet the damning percussion in Julian's head, but Ezri's awkwardness seems to drown it out. “How's your research going?”

“Good. Things have slowed down significantly since the war ended, but it is nice not having to fulfill military contracts. The bureaucracy is maddening.”

“That's Starfleet for you. One big, interstellar bureaucracy.”

“Have you ever considered leaving?”

“Starfleet?” Ezri shakes her head. “I may complain about the PADDwork, but Starfleet has been good to me. They've believed in me times when I didn't even believe in myself. I mean, I never would've been joined if Starfleet didn't think I could handle it. Not that they had much of a choice. The symbiont would've died if we hadn't been joined, but during those first three days—” Ezri leans in closer to Lenara. “—when I was convinced the symbiont would reject me, everyone on the Destiny had such confidence in me. I never thought of myself as being worthy of being joined, but my crewmates… It's like they saw a part of me that I was too close to see.”

“It sounds to me like you owe as much to Starfleet as Starfleet owes to you.”

Ezri grins. “I can only hope.” 

“Well, I don't think either of you would be where you are today without each other.”

“No, I guess not.”

They share a smile. Julian coughs. “Shall I get us some more drinks?” Lenara and Ezri nod wordlessly at him and as he gets up from the table he realizes that he may have squashed one intimate moment between them, but he'd also left them alone to have countless more.

He approaches the bar; the drinks can't come fast enough. “Quark! Another round.”

“Coming up.” But Quark pauses pouring to leer at Lenara and Ezri. “How's the beginning of the end going?”

“Dinner is going fine, thank you… Can you hurry with those drinks?”

“A little anxious to get back, are we? Afraid by the time you sit down they'll be married and with a Bajoran war orphan on the way?”

Julian fixes him with a particularly menacing glare, which considering the general symmetry of his facial features is not too intimidating. Even to a Ferengi. “That's coming out of your tip.” That ought to do it.

“Hey, I'm only looking out for you. From one Dax admirer to another, I think we both know how this ends.”

“Because it's happened before…” Julian mutters bitterly.

“Exactly.” Damn Ferengi hearing. “She's as good as gone. Better to cut your losses now than—”

“I'm not losing anything!”

“So, you think it's a coincidence that Lenara chose this station of all places to make her humble home.”

“We're next to the only known stable wormhole in the universe and she's a wormhole scientist. The fact that Ezri is here is just… But even if Lenara was willing to take the risk and reassociate, Ezri would never. We're together! She has me.”

“Oh, and what a prize you are. DS9's most eligible confirmed bachelor.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“To put it simply, you don't have the lobes for keeping a female.”

“I don't 'keep females.' I… I respect them!”

“You 'respect them' so much that they flee from your embrace like a barkan out of hezmana.”

“A what out of where?”

“How many successful relationships have you had? How many relationships have you had that lasted longer than a week?”

“I was with Leeta for months!”

“And then she left you for Rom. If that doesn't speak to how desperate you make females, I don't know what does.”

“It's different with Ezri. We've been together for four months.”

“But how much longer can you give her. A year? Two? At best, you can give her one lifetime. That's nothing to a Trill, but Lenara… I'd hate to play the species card, but let's face it, you're not Trill. You're barely even human.”

“For who could ever learn to love a mutant?” Julian retorts.

“Exactly.” Apparently, hewman sarcasm is the one thing Ferengi ears can't hear. “Here's your drinks.” He passes the tray to Julian. “You know, I could've had a waiter bring them to your table.”

“And have me miss out on your stunning conversational skills and sunny disposition? Never.” Satisfied with his parting shot, Julian heads back to the table where Ezri and Lenara are still deep in conversation.

“And what about your sister?” Ezri asks. “How is she doing?”

“Good. She's doing well. She just graduated from the Murona Institute of Rian'kora.”

“Wow. That's amazing. Don't they only take a few dozen new students a year?”

Lenara nods. “It's a very selective program, but Nulat has always been gifted. Practically from birth.”

“That's so strange, because you and your brother are both scientists and she's—”

“I know! Bejal and I don't have an artistic bone in our bodies between the two of us—”

“But she's a trained rian'kora!”

“What's funny is that she's really not the odd one in the family; me and Bejal are. My parents are both artists… I actually think they were quite relieved when she started performing.”

“Pardon me,” Julian says. “What's a rian'kora?”

Ezri and Lenara glance at Julian, then back to each to each other to converse briefly in Trill before Ezri turns to him. “It's like a mime. A talking mime.”

“So, like a clown?”

Ezri and Lenara share an amused look, giggling sightly. “It's a little more complicated than that.”

“Oh.” Julian stares down at his salad.

“Rian'korii are more… prestigious than clowns.”

“Oh.” He stabs his fork through an Andorian olive, splattering its juice across his plate.

Lenara leans closer to him. “Rian'koran is maybe the definitive Trill artform.” He feels like he should know that.

“And what exactly does one do with a degree in rian'koran?” He's scrambling, pulling out the stock question he asks of anyone in a “softer” field who intimidates him. It's juvenile.

“Well.” Lenara wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Nulat is working as a cultural ambassador for Trill with the Federation Artists Corps.”

“I'm surprised that's up and running already,” Ezri says. “It was only in the preliminary planning stages when I was at the Academy.”

“From what I hear,” Lenara starts, “once the Dominion War started in earnest, a group of artists in San Francisco decided enough was enough and began organizing and building the corps without Starfleet.”

“I'm sure the upper brass weren't pleased when they found out,” Julian says.

Lenara chortles. “To say the least… but I think in the end they were grateful. They wouldn't have sent Nulat and her team to Romulus otherwise.”

“Romulus, really?”

“That's amazing,” Ezri says, resting a hand on Lenara's wrist.

“It's a huge honor for Nulat and the entire family.” Lenara pinches her napkin between her fingers, rolling the fabric back and forth in what has to be a soothing manner. “And to be quite honest, she needed some good news then.” She looks up at Ezri. “The week before Nulat got her orders to go to Romulus, the Symbiosis Commission rejected her application.”

“Oh, well, you know that doesn't mean it's over. Jadzia flunked out of the initiate program—”

“They wouldn't even look at her application. They rejected it outright without giving her a chance. All because… all because she has Gandres syndrome.”

“The developmental disorder?” Julian asks.

Lenara nods. “No one who has it has ever been joined before. We all thought that was because there were never any qualified candidates, but Nulat…She graduated with distinction, and a third-year at the Academy was accepted before her.”

“Is she even capable of being joined? I know Gandres doesn't affect isoboramine lev—”

“Julian!” Ezri scolds in a whisper.

“It's fine,” Lenara says. She looks to Julian as one scientist to another. “We have no reason to believe she'd reject a symbiont, but that's what the initiate program is supposed to figure out. Nulat was never given the chance.”

“That's horrible.” And Julian would know. Or, at least, Jules would. “I'm sorry.”

“Thank you.”

Ezri squeezes her arm. “It's the Symbiosis Commission's loss.”

“It's a loss to all of us.” Lenara closes her eyes. “When I think of all the experiences, all the lives the Kahn symbiont won't have because of some outdated medical bias…” When she opens her eyes, they are free of tears yet somehow shining with determination. “The entire point of joining is for the symbiont to gain new experiences, but not a single symbiont alive today knows what it is like to live as Nulat does. We only join symbionts with the most successful Trill—people who for the most part have never known what it's like to struggle or to have people immediately doubt them because of the way they were born. I mean, what kind of society are we building if our one source of continuity from one generation to the next is people who've had everything handed to them on a latinum platter?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Ezri trails off.

Lenara sips at her wine. “And that's why my family left Trill.”

“What?” Julian gasps. “All of you?”

“Yes, of course. We couldn't stand to be a part of that culture any longer.”

“So you just packed up and moved? Couldn't you have circulated a petition or something?”

“That's not how things work on Trill,” Ezri explains. “Our word for 'dissident' translates roughly to 'expatriate.' Seriously.”

“Love it or leave it?” Julian asks.

“And take your whole family with you,” Ezri finishes.

“Will the rest of your family be joining you on the station?”

“No,” Lenara says. “Everyone except for Nulat is on Andor.”

“Are you going to be moving there?” Julian asks. “To be with them?”

“I want to, but I can't.”

“Work?”

“No. I… This is going to sound incredibly morbid of me, but I can't move to Andor because if I should die there, the Kahn symbiont will be returned to the Symbiosis Commission. And neither of us want that.” She inhales deeply. “I've decided to will the symbiont to Nulat. I know I'm not much older than her, but if I were to die before her… there's no one I know more worthy of being joined.” She smiles slightly. “Although, I must admit, I'm likely biased.”

“That's insane,” Ezri laughs.

“It's completely ludicrous, I know.”

“I mean, it's _you_.”

“Me. Of all people! Not in a million years did I imagine I would be taking refuge on a Bajoran space station so the Federation can't take custody of my symbiont.”

“Hey, I never thought I'd have a symbiont for the Federation to take.”

“Yeah.” Lenara grins. “It's funny how things work out.”

Ezri ducks her head, hiding the wide, blushing smile on her face. Julian sees it anyway, which sends a sharp, twisting cramp to his stomach—growing pains marking his slow transformation into a cuckold, he assumes. He's about to head back up to the bar to get another drink—if only to have Quark validate his pervading sense of dread—when his commbadge chirps.

He taps the badge. “Bashir.”

“It's Jake. Kasidy needs you. She's in her quarters.”

“I'll be there soon.” Julian gets up from the table. “Excuse me. Duty calls.”

He all but runs to the turbolift, slowed by Odo's voice in his ear: “No running on the Promenade!” and “Are they dying? No? Then you can walk like everyone else.”

At least, Julian hopes Kasidy isn't dying. He imagines Jake would have the good sense to have Kasidy beamed to the medical bay immediately if she or her unborn child were in serious danger, but you can't really anticipate how someone will act in a life-or-death situation.

Julian's faith in Jake's emergency preparedness falters when he arrives in the habitat ring and faintly smells smoke coming from the Sisko-Yates' quarters, along with hearing a woman groan, “It burns!”

Good god! Julian punches in his security override, covering his nose and mouth with his shirt, ready to pull Kasidy and Jake from the inferno swallowing their home. Of course, when the door swishes open, he finds not a disaster area but a very dirty kitchen, ingredients and pots and pans strewn everywhere. In the corner, Jake scrapes the burnt-on mess off a skillet into the replicator's recycling platform. His step-mother is nowhere to be seen.

“What happened?” Julian asks. “Where's Kasidy?”

Jake gives a long-suffering sigh. “She got pepper juice in her eye. She's trying to flush it out in the bathroom.”

Julian crosses the room and knocks on the bathroom door. “Kasidy, it's Dr. Bashir. May I come in?”

The door opens and Kasidy staggers out, her left eye red and puffy and now dripping with water. “I feel like my face is falling off.”

“We can't have that, can we?” He gently takes Kasidy by the elbow, leading her to the couch. She (consciously or unconsciously) picks the cushion not bearing Captain Sisko's butt imprint to sit on. Once she's settled, Julian nudges Jake away from the replicator and orders, “Whole milk. In a shot glass,” which he has Kasidy place snugly over her eye, leaning her head back, allowing the casein in the milk to neutralize the capsaicin from the peppers.

Wiping her face with the back of her shirtsleeve, Kasidy reclines on the sofa, sighing. “Thanks, Julian. I'll have to remember that for next time.”

Jake nearly drops a newly ruined skillet, his eyes wide in horror at the prospect at of a “next time.”

“About that,” Julian says, “as your doctor, I'd recommend holding off on the cooking. At least for the time being.”

“Why? Could it be bad for the baby?”

“No. You're just really bad at it.” Jake snorts as Kasidy playfully swats at Julian. “Hey! If that's the kind of thanks I get for sound medical advice, I'll leave.”

Kasidy rolls her eyes. “Go on, get. You don't want to leave Dax and Dr. Kahn waiting.”

“That's right!” Jake says. “You're supposed to be having dinner with Ezri and her widow tonight. Sorry. I wouldn't've called you over if I'd remembered.”

“It's all right, it's…” Julian furrows his brow. “How do you two even know about that?” Stepmother and stepson share an awkward, frantic look across the living room. “Wait, did Ezri tell you about dinner? What did she say? Was she excited? Did she say anything about Len—”

“Whoa,” Jake interjects, waving his hands in front of his chest. “I just heard it from Nog.”

“Nog? Hows does _Nog_ know?”

Jake shrugs. “Small station. News travels fast.”

“Right. And you, of course, had to tell Kasidy.”

“No,” she says from the couch. “Lysia told me this afternoon.”

“Lysia? _The jumja vendor?_ ” Julian shakes his head. “Does everyone know?” Julian takes their tightlippedness as an affirmative. He pauses, taking a breath, centering himself before he has an existential meltdown in the middle of what is, for all intents and purpose, a house call. “Was there anything else you needed, Captain?”

“No, I'm good now. Thank you.”

“Right. You're welcome.” He heads for the door. “Come down to sickbay tomorrow morning once the inflammation has gone down and we'll make sure there isn't any physical damage to the eye.” He bids them farewell and hustles his way down to Quark's. Ezri and Lenara are, of course, long gone.

–

“Thank you for walking me home,” Lenara says, keying open her front door.

“It's nothing,” Ezri says. “I know how easy it is to get lost on this station.” The door opens and Lenara enters. Against her better judgment, Ezri follows her. “My first night here I spent two hours wandering around looking for my quarters. And that was after living here for six years as Jadzia… I ended up falling asleep in a cargo bay.” Her hands fidget behind her back. “It was a confusing time.”

Lenara smiles at her in a way Dax has never seen. “Sounds like it.”

“It's still a confusing time, really. I get spacesick, you know… But you probably don't want to hear about me puking… And now I'm just bringing more attention to the puking. I should…” Ezri looks back at the door. “I should go.” She backs away slowly. “Good night,” she adds in a pathetically squeaky voice.

“Ezri, wait.”

“I should go. I have to—”

“I need to tell you something.”

“Is it that you still love me and want to tear my clothes off right here, because…” Lenara looks anywhere but at Ezri. “Oh, boy.” Ezri takes a big step back, bumping into the bulkhead. “I need to—”

“There are dozens of non-aligned planets where I could be free of the Symbiosis Commission, but I chose this station because… because I was hoping there might still be something left between us.”

Ezri snorts, hurt still four years and one death later. “Now that you don't have anything left to lose?”

Lenara looks her straight in the eye. “From where I'm standing, I have everything to gain.”

Ezri surges forward, pointing an angry finger in Lenara's face. “That's not fair!” Her chest heaves. “You can't—you can't say something like that and expect me not to fall into your arms!”

Lenara places her hand on top of Ezri's, lowering the shaking finger from her face. “Dax…” Propelled by muscle memory, their fingers entwine.

“I'm not…” Ezri says, quiet now. “I'm not Jadzia. I'm not Torias.”

“I know.” Lenara leans down, pressing her forehead against Ezri's. The height difference is new, but the gesture's the same. “And I'm not Nilani. And I'm not the same Lenara that Jadzia knew.”

“So much has changed, but we're still…” Ezri raises her head to look up at Lenara, dragging her nose along Lenara’s upper lip. 

She can feel Lenara shiver. Lenara steps closer, nuzzling her nose against Ezri's cheek.

A billion Terran butterflies take flight in Ezri's stomach. Fearful of what that might mean, she pulls away. “I have a boyfriend.” She backs away. “I have a boyfriend.” She's almost to the door. “I have a boyfriend.” Maybe if she says it enough times, it'll matter. “I have a—” The door opens behind her and she backs right into… “Julian!”

“Ezri, I was just looking for—”

Ezri squeaks like a Cardassian vole before taking off at full speed down the corridor and away from Julian and Lenara. She doesn't really know where she's running, only that she shouldn't be running to begin with. (“Shut up, Odo,” she mutters to herself.) She somehow finds herself in front of Kira's cabin, proceeding to ring the bell at least a dozen times in the span of twenty seconds.

“ _Come in!_ ” Kira hollers. The door slides open, revealing the colonel wrapped in a towel, her hair wet. She gives Ezri a once-over. “Kahn?”

Ezri nods furiously, stepping into Kira's quarters. “She…”

“What?”

“She _wants_ me.”

“And you want her?”

Ezri gives a high-pitched whine.

Kira fixes her with one of those no-nonsense Bajoran militia-woman looks that Ezri finds more than a little intimidating. “You know I'm not the person you need to be talking to.”

“I know, I know. I need to talk to Julian.” She gives Kira the Tobin-perfected puppy dog eyes (which, admittedly, work much better on this host than any other). “But do I have to do it tonight? ”

Kira, as predicted, caves. “I guess not. But you have to do it eventually.”

“I know, but tonight, couldn't I just stay here? We could camp out in the living room and braid each other's hair and talk about… interstellar politics? We hardly get to spend any time together anymore.”

Kira sighs. “Fine.”

“Thank you.” Ezri flops on the couch. “It'll be great.”

Kira runs a hand through her still-wet hair. “Be honest; are you staying here to keep yourself from going to Lenara?”

Ezri's visage transforms into one of utmost solemnity. “If I try to leave, sit on me.”


	2. Agony that Can Cut Like a Knife... Ah, Well, Back to My Wife

In the second trimester of her pregnancy, Kasidy has taken to going for long walks around the habitat ring and through the Promenade, perhaps keeping an eye on her husband's realm while he's away. But Ezri doesn't like to speculate. Or, rather, other people don't like Ezri to speculate. Apparently, it can be unnerving. Having been unnerved often enough, Ezri respects their wishes. When she joins Kasidy on her daily sojourns, she keeps the psychoanalyzing to herself, careful not to infringe on Kasidy's relaxation. Ezri knows firsthand how stressful pregnancy can be. She can't even begin to imagine how having the father of your child gone—gone and living outside of time—compounds that stress.

For the most part, Kasidy has managed well, taking comfort in more time with Jake, but how much of her apparent ease is Captain Yates-Sisko putting on a brave face for her men is anyone's guess. Ezri can see the tension in Kasidy's gait as they near the Bajoran shrine. She imagines Kasidy is readying herself for a little pious Bajoran gawking at the Emissary's wife, but what they come to see is much more, well, Bajoran.

A crowd of two dozen or so worshippers kneel in prayer just outside the shrine, while a vedek burns a scroll etched with Kasidy's likeness.

“What the hell?” Kasidy mutters.

As the last of the scroll turns to ash, the gathered Bajorans begin chanting in their ancient tongue, “May the fires of Bajoran lightning cleanse the Emissary's wife of her illness,” over and over again, increasing in volume and frequency until silenced by the banging of a gong.

Kasidy cups her hands around her mouth and yells across the Promenade, “I'm not sick!”

There's a cacophony of murmurs amongst the Bajorans (Ezri swears she hears someone say, “It worked!”) before the vedek steps forward. “We are pleased to hear this, Captain. Many members of the congregation were concerned about your well-being after Dr. Bashir was called to your quarters last night.” Apparently, station gossip reaches even the clergy.

“I'm fine. I just got pepper juice in my eye while I was cooking.”

“Ah. I did not know you enjoyed cooking.”

“I don't and I'm honestly not very good at it, as Jake will tell you. But last night, I thought I'd give it a try. Get some of Ben's food smells back in our quarters again. It didn't really work out too well.”

“Perhaps next time.” The vedek nods and rejoins the congregation.

Kasidy watches them warily. “I don't think I'll ever get used to that.”

“Still a little unnerved about being a religious icon's wife?” Ezri asks.

“A little. I know they mean well, but it's so strange being revered by people you've never met.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I guess you'd know, huh?”

“I never had it as bad as you do; no one's ever burned an effigy in my honor. But I know the disconnect between how they perceive you and how you perceive yourself can be daunting.”

“But it does get better?”

“In time. I think the best thing you can do is get to know the Bajorans on the station better, try to understand where they're coming from and show them who you really are. That's what helped me adjust to knowing everyone Jadzia knew.”

“Speaking of that…” Kasidy looks across the Promenade at the jumja stick cart, where Lenara is waiting to be served.

“Oh god.” Ezri hides her face behind her hands. “Does everyone know about that?”

“I'm sure there's at least one person on the station who Morn hasn't told.”

“How much did he tell you?”

“Enough to know that you should be talking to Julian instead of me right now.”

“I know. I will. I just…” She wants to say she wishes Ben was here right now, because he'd know what to do, but in her head that sounds incredibly selfish and insensitive. “I need the right time.”

“Well, there he is,” Kasidy says, nodding towards Julian as he walks around the jumja stick cart, all but glaring at Lenara.

“And there _they_ are,” Ezri says, tilting her head towards the Bajoran congregation.

They each take a deep breath, square their shoulders, and take off into the vast wilderness of emotionally mature conversations.

–

“Julian, we need to talk.”

That's really all she need say. Every prophecy of doom he's dreamt up in his head since Lenara came on the station is confirmed by Ezri's single uttered cliché.

He knows what's to come, but he follows Ezri back to her quarters like a condemned man to a scaffold somehow convinced that a last minute call from the governor will stay his execution. He racks his brain for words, any words that can set this to rights; there has to be at least one word in his genetically enhanced vocabulary that can make this all go away, to restore the way things were or how they could be.

Yet when Ezri's door swishes shut, Julian remains silent, no words to come from him.

“There's really no easy way of saying this…” _Then don't._ “I've been having feelings for Lenara.” She waits and he says nothing. “Ever since she came to the station, I've just wanted to… be with her. I'm not—I'm not doing this on purpose and I don't mean to hurt you. The way I feel about Lenara… it's like a force of nature. I have no control over it.”

“I see.” Julian crosses his arms. “Have you considered this might be another effect of your joining? You've been confused before.”

“Julian, I'm not confused,” she snaps. “And, frankly, I'm a little surprised you could say something so bigoted.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. You know I didn't mean it that way. I'm simply worried about you. For something to come over you this quickly—”

“Quickly? She was my wife.”

“She was Torias' wife. You're Ezri. You're with me. We love each other, don't we?”

“Yes.”

“Then we can get through this. You and me.”

“I don't think there's any getting through this.”

“Well, there has to be something we can do—“ Julian says, “that I can do to fix—”

“Me?”

“Yes!”

“Like you fixed Melora and Sarina?”

“What do they have to do with anything?”

“Everything!” Ezri says, shouting in earnest for the first time. “I'm not a broken Trill doll you get to restore to mint condition.”

“I never said you were! Ezri, I don't know where this is coming from.”

“Well, maybe if we spent more time together as a couple instead of as Spartan soldiers, you'd have a better idea.”

“You were the one who wanted to play with me.”

“Because I wanted to be close to you, but all you want to do is tell me how I'm not as good as Miles. I'm sick of being everyone's consolation prize.”

“And you don't think that's what you'll be to Lenara? You will always be Dax to her.”

“I'd rather be Dax to Lenara than Jadzia to you.” She stomps over to door, which whooshes open at her command. “Goodbye, Julian.”

He skulks to the doorway. “This is it then. It's over?”

“Yeah. It's over.”

He leaves without another word.

–

Ezri curls her arm protectively around her bottle of bloodwine, as if Worf could reach right through the screen to steal it away from her. “I thought you'd like to hear it from me first,” Ezri says, slumping on her coffee table. “I broke it off with Julian.”

“I see.” Worf purses his lips. “Ezri… I still believe it would dishonor Jadzia's memory for us—”

“No. Ew. No. That's not why I called… But now that you mention it, I find the whole premise that reassociation is dishonoring a previous host's memory to be really offensive. I mean, I'm not some living monument to Jadzia that you're all fouling with your genitals. I'm my own person and… and if Lenara wants to dishonor me, she can dishonor me all night long.” Ezri snorts into the mouth of her bottle.

Worf raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

“Anyway, I called to tell you that you were right. Julian _is_ a child.” Ezri raises her bottle to Worf. “Qapla'!”

He raises his prune juice in kind. “Qapla'.”

And they drink.

–

Julian taps the bar. “Another.”

Vic stops mid-pour. “You really think that's a good idea? Even you genetically engineered humans can't match drinks with a hologram.”

“No, I'm fine. The minute I walk out that door all the alcohol in my system will disappear.”

“Then what's the point?”

Julian shrugs. “Same as any other hologram. Make us feel good for a while and forget who we are before we have to go back to our miserable lives.”

“At least, you have a miserable life to go back to. Some of us don't even have that.”

“You willing to trade?”

“Pally, you have no idea.”

“Believe me, you don't want it. If you had any idea of what it's like… Imagine—imagine you meet this woman. This amazing, wonderful woman so beautiful and clever and so untouchable. You're willing to do anything to be with her, but it never happens. She gets married, gets ready to start a family, and even then you still have the smallest bit of hope that one day she will turn around and see you. But before she does, she dies. Then owing to some miracle, she returns to you and finally after all those years, you get together with the woman of your dreams.” Julian takes a swallow of his gin. “Four months later, she leaves you for the woman of _her_ dreams.”

“Julian, Ezri's not Jadzia.”

“I know that!” He slams his glass onto the bar. “She's not Jadzia, she's not Miles, she's not Sisko, she's not Odo, and she sure as hell isn't Worf.”

“You miss them.”

“More than—it's like I have this giant, gaping hole inside of me that I keep trying to fill with Spartans and Ezri and more Ezri. And all of that—all those distractions and self-delusions are gone now and I'm left to face the fact that—that—”

“What?”

“That… for the first time in seven years, I don't have a family.”

–

With the help of a few hyposprays begged off of Dr. Girani before Julian's shift started, Ezri's bloodwine hangover slowly leaches away over the course of the day. By the time her shift ends, the only trace of last night's festivities left in Ezri's body is that earworm of a song Worf started singing in Russian at four in the morning. Her mind is running through the chorus (something about snowshoes by a fire) for the hundredth time since this morning when she catches Lenara's eye from across the Promenade. Ezri nods at her and Lenara seems to understand that there's nothing—not a single thing—keeping them apart now except a few meters of recycled space station air.

Closing the distance at a sprint, imagined admonishments from Odo are drowned out by images of a thousand lovers in a thousand Human holovids running to each other like Ezri and Lenara are right now. It's all very romantic until Ezri trips, falling literally at Lenara's feet.

Lenara makes no attempt to stifle her laughter as she bends down to see if Dax is alright. “This isn't funny,” Ezri says, even as her own laughter gives her away.

“It's a little funny.”

Ezri playfully smacks Lenara's arm away, earning her a pinch to her side and two arms wrapped around her and two lips pressed to her own. Ezri's not Julian, so she doesn't ponder the statistical probabilities of these two new bodies fitting together as perfectly as they had hundreds of years prior. It's enough that they do.

Locked together like puzzle pieces, wild horses couldn't drag them away (to borrow the human expression), but a severe-looking vedek glaring at them for feeling each other up in front of the Bajoran shrine sends them, red-faced but still giddy, back to Ezri's quarters.


	3. Give Another Number to Me

As a child, whenever Julian became upset or saddened about things out of his control, his mother would always rub his back and say, “You won't feel this way forever.” As an adult, Julian realizes what his mother meant was, “Eventually, you will grow so accustomed to this feeling that you'll forget it's even there.” The trick is surviving long enough to get to that point.

After Ezri leaves him, Julian spends all of his off-time holed up in his quarters, the privacy allowing him to be mournful in a way he'd never express in public. (Stiff upper lip. Keep calm and carry on.) After two weeks, the pain has dulled to the point where he feels equipped to brave the social niceties required by the world outside his cabin, and, in fact, he is looking forward to spending time with someone besides himself and the ghosts of every woman to ever love/leave him.

Once his shift has ended, Julian goes round to Kasidy's to see how she's doing—as her friend rather than as her doctor. (It's fair to say that since his break-up with Ezri, Julian hasn't been performing either role as well as he could.)

“Julian!” Kasidy exclaims. The Bajoran women surrounding her on the couch part like the Red Sea as she stands. (Julian supposes the wife of the Emissary has that power.) “It's good to see you out and about.”

“Thanks, er…” His eyes follow a tray of beets across the room. “What—Excuse me.” He steps around a cluster of Bajoran women, all of whom are holding plates of dirty rice and—“Is that shrimp creole?”

Kasidy nods. “Lysia made it.”

“Lysia? The jumja vendor?”

“Ben gave her a copy of his cookbook a few years ago. After hearing how much I missed his cooking, a few of the women down at the shrine decided to fix me dinner.”

“That's nice.”

“It is, isn't—” Something catches her eye by the replicator, and she hollers, “Don't let Roana get into that Sazerac; you know what happened last week!” The room erupts into laughter while one brunette (Roana?) turns as red as the beets on her plate.

“What—what happened last week?” Julian asks over the chuckling.

Kasidy takes a step closer to Bashir and explains quietly, “Roana spent the entire night sipping Sazerac trying to work up the courage to talk to me and when she finally did—” She makes a heaving noise. “Right on my shirt.”

“Wow. Is she okay?”

“She's fine. Right after I changed my shirt, I took her to Girani to get checked out. I think her ego took more of a pummeling than her liver.” She turns, checking back up on Roana to see her talking animatedly with a few of the other women. Kasidy smiles at Julian. “I joke about it a little bit so she knows I'm not planning to have her excommunicated.”

“Could you do that?”

“I don't know. I've never tried.” 

“Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“Kasidy!” Lysia calls from Sisko's makeshift kitchen. “The beignets are done.”

Despite his nutritional training as a doctor, Julian's stomach rumbles at the smell of fried dough and powdered sugar. “Those smell great. Do you mind if I—”

Kasidy's smile fades. “Actually…”

“Oh. Right. I didn't mean to—”

“ _I_ don't mind, but this is kind of a Bajoran thing.”

“And I'm not Bajoran.”

“And you're not a woman.”

“Right.” Julian eyes the door. “I guess I'll be going then.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

Julian is almost to the door when Kasidy calls to him, “Before you go… Was there a reason why you came over here?”

“No. Just checking to see how you're doing.”

“Thanks. I'll see you around.”

“Right.” Julian nods and takes off for Quark's, knowing that at this hour the bar will be empty enough for Quark to spend at least a few minutes commiserating with Julian on their lack of “females.”

Yet, when Julians walks in, he finds Quark not at the bar idly chatting with Morn, but rather standing with Jake in front of a small group of patrons, each of whom is holding a PADD.

“Right,” Quark says. “Orak.” He glances down at his stylus. “In the first act, when you say, 'I'd kill for that kind of latinum,' try to be a little more… uh… reverent of that latinum. It's not just currency; it's your ticket into the Divine Treasury.”

“How should I say it?” a young Bajoran man about Jake's age asks.

“Well, maybe more like—”

Jake grabs Quark by the bicep, cutting him off. “Don't give him a line reading,” Jake says quietly.

“Why not?” Quark whispers.

“I don't know. The book just said not to do it.”

“Fine.” Quark looks back down at Orak. “Say it as if you're standing in front of the Blessed Exchequer and he's about to throw you into the Vault of Eternal Destitution if you don't give him one more bar of latinum. Does that help?”

“I guess?” Orak responds.

“Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go check on the bar.” He points to Orak. “Always keep one eye on your profits. Write that down.”

Bashir trails Quark back to the bar. “What's all that about?”

“You haven't heard?” Quark pulls out his inventory PADD. “Jake was supposed to circulate the audition notice to everybody.”

“I haven't been checking my personal messages… Auditions? For what?”

“Dinner theatre. Jake wrote one of those hewman murder mysteries and we're putting it on here at the bar.”

“A play? I never knew you were interested in the theatre.”

“I'm not. I _am_ interested in turning a profit. According to my projections, this show will double my quarterly earnings.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I don't know why I didn't think of it before. My overheads are practically nothing.” Quark leans over the bar conspiratorially. “Did you know you can pay actors _in food_?”

Julian chuckles. “I wasn't aware.”

“It doesn't even have to be good food. Sometimes even just the promise of food will do it. You tell an actor a pizza is fifteen minutes away, he will work for hours.”

“Seems like you've found your next racket.”

“Yeah.” Quark slides his PADD back under the bar. “If we survive rehearsals.” Quark steps out from behind the bar, brushing past Julian. “Excuse me.” He rejoins Jake and the actors, leaving Julian to himself.

Julian strums his fingers on the bar, frustrated at striking out twice in one evening. He follows the sound of Kira's laughter up to the second floor of the bar, the friendly sound of his friendly friend acting like a homing device.

“—in your pants?” Kira guffaws.

“In my pants,” Nog repeats. “It's hard to believe, but I got an entire cellar of Andorian cider out the front door that way.”

“You think that's hard to believe…” Julian rounds the corner and finds the two of them sharing a table covered with forgotten engineering diagnostic diagrams. “…when I was sixteen, I smuggled twenty pounds of explosives out of a Cardassian military warehouse by stuffing them under my shirt.”

“No way! How did you not get caught?”

Kira shrugs. “I think the guards figured I was just another pregnant Bajoran woman, littering the face of the planet. What's ironic…” Kira takes a sip of her drink. “…is that during the occupation, the Cardassian government used to refer to pregnant Bajorans as 'ticking timebombs.'”

Nog howls with laughter and Julian can't see any foray he could make into their conversation turning into anything but becoming a third wheel on another person's relationship. Good god, that is happening to him a lot lately.

He sighs, turning tail for the one place he's sure to get a warm welcome precisely because it was designed to do so. Yet, when Julian walks into Vic's, there's no maitre'd greeting him, no Vic giving him a wink from onstage, no busty showgirls on their night off. The place is deserted. Julian is about to head back to his quarters to comm Felix about a possible program malfunction when he notices Vic sitting alone at the end of the bar.

“Hey, Vic.” Julian sidles up to the bar. “Where is everyone?”

“Show's cancelled,” Vic murmurs into his scotch.

“What? Why?”

Vic glares up at him like he's the most inane, irrelevant person in the universe (which is, frankly, how Julian feels right now). “The President's dead.”

“Oh. I'm sorry I hadn't realized… Wait, which president?”

“JFK.”

“JFK? That's not possible. Kennedy was shot in 1963. This program is set 1962.”

“Not anymore.” Vic slaps a newspaper down in front of Julian. The date reads November 22, 1963.

“Good god.” Julian collapses on a barstool. “Do you know what this means?”

“LBJ is president?”

“Even my hologram has moved on without me!”

–

Lenara nearly knocks over that Ferengi lieutenant on her jog up the stairs. Running late again as usual. A penchant for tardiness is just one of many gifts passed down to Lenara through the Kahn symbiont. But, as Nilani would say, better late than never—a statement all too relevant to her newly resumed relationship with Dax.

The last two weeks have been amazing. For both of them, she hopes. With Jadzia, it was like picking up where they left off, but with Ezri, it's like they're newlyweds again. (And she's not just talking about the sex, which has been… suffice it to say that the Dax symbiont has picked up a few new tricks since Torias.) Every night, back in the arms of her Dax, holding and talking and exploring and laughing, counting each other's spots… It seems almost too good to be true that they could have this happiness together after so many missed chances. Lenara's half-convinced she'll wake up tomorrow morning to find Ezri gone. At any moment, Ezri could cut ties and beg the Symbiosis Commission for forgiveness or drop Lenara like the other million impulsive commitments Dax has broken, like quitting the neighbor's book club or giving up on giving up meat.

And perhaps that's partly why Lenara is running so late tonight. She has to admit some nervousness to having dinner as a couple with Nerys. Reassociating in private is one thing; putting such a relationship out in public to be judged by family and friends is another. Lenara has no doubts about her intentions for Ezri, but she's uncertain whether their budding relationship can stand up to the harsh light of day.

As she reaches the second floor of Quark's, Lenara takes a deep breath, readying herself for the evening ahead, trying to not to think too fatalistically.

“—going between you and Kahn?” Kira asks somewhere across the room.

Lenara stops dead in her tracks.

“Good. Things are going good,” Ezri responds.

“Good? Just good?”

“Okay, fine. Things are going great.” Lenara edges closer to the source of their conversation, ducking behind a pillar once she sees the back of Ezri's head. “I think… I think she might be the one.”

“The one what?”

“ _The one._ ”

“Still not following you.”

“It's an Earth expression. It means… that's the person I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

“And you only get one of those?”

“That's what the humans think. I've never really bought into it. Especially now that I'm joined. But Lenara…”

“She makes you believe.”

“Yeah. I know we've only been back together for a few weeks, but I can't help feeling hopeful about it. If I'm able to will my symbiont like she has, Dax and Kahn have a real shot of being together forever. Maybe not always as lovers, but we could still be in each other's lives…”

Lenara is about to head down to the bathroom to see how much of her eye make-up has been ruined by Ezri's revelation when her comm signals. She quietly answers, “Phantom.”

A familiar, distorted voice answers, “The package will be delivered in fifteen minutes.”

“I'll be in position.” She jams her comm into her pocket and starts down the stairs.

So much for dinner. So much for the harsh light of day.

–

Julian manages to get out of Vic's after two whiskey sours downed in Kennedy's memory. Even with the alcohol leached from his system, he's still rather depressed about tonight's aborted night out with friends. He knows it's not reasonable to expect everyone to have put their lives on hold while he was hiding in his quarters or even to expect them to drop their evening plans on his account… but he can't think of anything he'd want to do more with the rest of his night than returning to his quarters to mope about his disloyal friends and stare passive-aggressively at the bulkhead.

His evening plans are once again disrupted when he sees the red light on his computer console flash. A high priority transmission. God, he hopes this isn't another randomized inventory request from Starfleet. On second thought, that would give him something productive and thoughtless to do tonight.

He activates his quarters' small viewscreen and is pleasantly surprised to see a recorded image of Dr. Karen Loews' face.

“Dr. Bashir, I'm contacting you because you're the only person who will help me. Three patients under my care—Jack, Lauren, and Patrick—have gone missing. I have reason to believe they have been kidnapped by Cardassians. Please contact me as soon as you receive this message.”

–

“It's me,” Ezri calls as she lets herself into Lenara's quarters. “What was it you wanted to show me?” And then she sees. “Oh my—Is that what I think it is?”

Lenara nods, laying a protective hand on the stasis tube.

“How did you…? Why did you…? Is it even alive?”

“Yes. The stasis should hold for another year.”

“Why?”

“It's not matured enough to be joined.”

“I know that. Why do you have a juvenile symbiont hidden in your quarters?”

“To be honest,” Lenara says, sitting on the bed. “I'm not entirely sure myself.”

“Oh, well, that's a great reason to commit felony kidnapping. You could get extradited back to the homeworld for this, you know that?”

“I know. And when I agreed to shelter the symbiont, that was a risk I was willing to take. But now I have you… and this revolution is shaping up to be far more disorganized than I was led to believe. No one seems to know what they want or what we should be doing besides smuggling out symbionts, and I—”

“Wait, _revolution_?”

“I don't know if I would call it a revolution exactly, but certain expatriates are organizing to overthrow the Symbiosis Commission.”

“And you're one of them?”

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“I see. Would you hold on a second?” Ezri aims herself at the bed before passing out.

–

“What do you mean by 'kidnapped?'” Julian asks, sitting in front of his subspace transmission camera. “Was there a ransom letter or any signs of a struggle in the facility? How did they even get into your facility to begin with?”

“No,” Dr. Loews answers. “The only evidence they left behind was this.”

Julian's viewscreen plays a a few seconds of recording of Jack saying curtly, _“We have defected to Cardassia.”_

“Defected?”

“Yes. According to interviews I've performed with the orderlies, it seems the three of them had been in covert contact with a Cardassian representative for about a week prior to their disappearance.”

“If your orderlies knew they were having unsupervised contact with Cardassians, why didn't they tell you sooner?”

“If a patient in a mental institution told you they were interviewing with the Cardassian Outworlder Liaison for a job position, would you believe them?”

“I would if they were Jack or Patrick.”

“Actually, it was Lauren. From what I gather, she was trying to impress the orderlies in her ongoing search for a male partner.”

Julian scrubs his hand over his face. “Do you know who exactly was contacting them? I know someone in the Cardassian government who might be able to—”

“That's actually why I'm calling. According to the orderlies, the Cardassian's name is Elim Garak.”

Julian groans, looking upward as if Sisko or the Prophets would project an answer from above. (Not that he's looking remotely in the right direction to be receiving information from the wormhole.) “Of course.”

“I was hoping you could use your connections to retrieve them.”

“Me? Isn't there something the Federation could do about this?”

“They've done what they can diplomatically. The Cardassian government won't even acknowledge that Jack and the others are there. Right now, it seems the only way of getting them back is finding them in person.”

“In person? You want me to go to Cardassia?” Before Dr. Loews can answer, Julian's commbadge chirps. “Bashir.” He listens, not exactly pleased to be hearing that particular voice. “I'll be there in a minute.”

–

Julian's medical tricorder hums as it passes over Ezri's body. “No sign of neurological trauma.”

“'m fine,” Ezri says, woozily sitting up.

“If you were fine, you wouldn't have passed out.”

“I was just a little overcome.”

“By what?” Julian looks like he absolutely does not want to know. Given that she had landed on Lenara's bed, Ezri can't blame him.

“I had a moment of perfect clarity.” She looks over at Lenara, awkwardly observing from the corner. “I know what my contribution to the Dax legacy is going to be; I'm going to overthrow the foundations of Trill society.”

“And I…” He scowls, holstering his medical tricorder. “…am apparently going to infiltrate the Cardassian Union to rescue a trio of escaped mutants. Because that’s just the way my life is going at the moment.” 

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. To you as well.”


	4. Some Come to Stare, Some Come to Stay

“Why are you going to Cardassia?” Kira says, apropos of nothing, as soon as Julian steps out of his quarters.

He nearly jumps out of his skin. “How long have you been out here?”

“Long enough. Here.” She takes one of Julian's bags, forcing the handle out of his hand. “Let me walk you to your shuttle.”

“Alright.” Julian smiles. As much as Kira has changed since they first met, he still occasionally catches glimpses of the tough, stubborn Bajoran woman who had tried to clear the rubble from the station by hand. It's good to know that some things stay the same.

“So, Cardassia?” She takes off at a leisurely pace toward the docking bay.

“Yes. Cardassia.” Julian follows at her side, taking one stride to every two of hers.

“Why?”

“I thought I made that clear in my official leave request. I'm going to Cardassia to find Jack and—”

“I know _why_ you're going. What I don't know is why _you're_ going. You're a doctor, not FEDPOL.”

“That's precisely why I’m going.”

“I don't follow.”

“Well, Cardassian-Federation relations being what they are, the Federation can't risk insulting the provisional government by accusing them of kidnapping Federation citizens. Perhaps even worse, neither the Federation or the Cardassian Union could risk showing a lack of confidence in the Cardassian government. Lest the Romulans or some other power take that as a sign to swoop in and colonize Cardassia.”

Kira snorts. “I suppose the Cardassians would know better than anyone what attracts occupying forces.”

“Exactly. So, to prevent any intragalactic scandal, the Federation has dropped the investigation.”

“ _That_ I don't understand. Three of their own people have been kidnapped—”

“But Jack and Patrick and Lauren aren't 'their own people.' Not to most Federation citizens. Not even to most Humans.”

Kira shakes her head. “Just another reason why I'm glad Bajor hasn't joined the Federation.”

“Hmm?”

“I don't want my people to be party to what the Federation does to its own citizens.”

“Keep in mind that most of what has been done to Jack and the others was believed to be for their own good.”

“And so was most of what the Cardassians did to us.”

“You can't possibly be comparing—they're not remotely the same.”

“They're not, but if my people have learned anything from the occupation, it's that when one group gets unchecked power over another, horrific things happen. That's why we got rid of the caste system.”

"I won't disagree with you there. Anyway, er, with the Federation dropping the investigation and everyone rightly wanting to avoid any possible friction with the Cardassian government, I'm going in as an independent investigator. Undercover, as it were." Julian takes his identification badge out of his pocket, holding it up for Nerys.

"Julian Bashir, physician," she reads. "Cardassian Relief Volunteer Corps."

"I humbly pledge my medical services to the Cardassian Union."

Kira snickers. "Frontier medicine by day, spy by night. Sounds like your dream job."

Julian shrugs, a lopsided grin on his face. "Not exactly the ideal circumstances."

"It's good to see you looking forward to something again. Even if it is rescuing your friends from the clutches of the Cardassian government."

Julian bows his head. "It should be an interesting trip. Thank you. For the leave time."

"You know I couldn't say no."

"Not to these dimples."

"Honestly, I appreciate that you asked me. If three of my friends were kidnapped by the Cardassians, I don't know if I would've waited to put in the paperwork."

"You know me, I'm strictly by the books."

Kira stops just short of the shuttle bay. "So, I'm guessing Starfleet has no idea why you're really going to Cardassia."

Julian shakes his head. "As far as the brass is concerned, I'm taking personal time to do volunteer work that will coincidentally make Starfleet appear generous toward Cardassia."

"I'll keep that in mind in my communiques."

"Thanks." Julian looks back at the passengers filing into the shuttle. "I should get going."

Kira hands off his suitcase before enveloping him in a hug. "Take care of yourself. Don't turn your back on them."

Julian wonders whether she means the Cardassians, or Jack and Patrick and Lauren.

–

Everything Julian knows about life on Cardassia Prime comes from Federation textbooks (which could hardly be trusted to present an unbiased picture), Cardassian novels (also of doubtful accuracy), and Garak's stories (most, if not all, of which were lies). Before the Dominion occupation, Julian thought Cardassia Prime to be a rigid society where the citizens walked in lockstep, lest the ever present government cause them to disappear or worse. Now, when he thinks of Cardassia, he imagines a society in ruins, where the people slowly learn to trust one another as they rebuild themselves. What he finds when his shuttle lands in the capital city is a rigid society where the citizens walk in lockstep around relief workers and massive piles of rubble. It's as if the last seven years haven't happened. It's as if everyone just woke up this morning to find half their city fallen to pieces and no one dares bring attention to it, like flatulence in a turbolift.

As far as coping mechanisms go, ignoring a problem until it goes away can be quite effective—for a time. Although, eventually, the issue comes to a point where it cannot be ignored and has to be dealt with. However, as Julian watches laborers clear the streets while posh pedestrians pretend not to see them, he realizes that some Cardassians have other people to deal with their issues for them.

On planet for less than ten minutes, he can already tell whose needs are being prioritized in the clean up. From the hoverbus, Julian sees the streets become progressively more unnavigable as they move away from the well-kept homes of high-ranking officials and toward the crumbling tenement buildings of the proletariat. It seems clearing rubble in the city center all day hasn't left the residents with much time to sort out their own neighborhoods. There is, however, one city block in relatively good condition. In fact, the buildings there look almost new.

The hoverbus descends onto the clean street and the volunteers pile out. Of course; their dormitories.

“Is this all new?” Julian asks the group's guide.

“Yes. The government built the compound specifically for foreign aid volunteers.”

It seems odd to build an entirely new structure when so much of the city (and the planet) is in disrepair, but Julian knows better than to question the wisdom of the Cardassian government, even the provisional one. He does have to ask: “What was here before?”

“Nothing.”

Julian looks around the neighborhood crammed full with shabby houses with lawns smaller than Julian's bed on DS9, every square inch of usable space used (along with some unusable space). He has a hard time picturing an empty lot in the middle of all this. He tries not to think about who the Cardassian government made homeless so that he would have a place to sleep at night.

Inside, the dormitories are a good deal more comfortable than the surrounding houses (although that is not such a boast in a neighborhood where having four walls and a roof is now considered a luxury), but the volunteer housing isn't exactly four star. When Julian heard they would be living in a dormitory, he imagined something like Starfleet Academy: private quarters, a few dining halls, modest grounds to lounge about on. What he finds is more like the Defiant: shared rooms the size of closets, a single dining hall in miniature, and not a unit of space dedicated to recreation. Cardassian utilitarianism at its finest.

Julian can manage living in a small room; he spent time in solitary confinement at a Dominion war prison. Living with a roommate is what makes him nervous, especially once he hears who his roommate will be. The coordinators of the volunteer corps were kind enough to base rooming assignments on shared interests, so Julian finds himself sharing with a midwife; a Klingon midwife, to be exact. Julian isn't so prejudiced as to be dreading sharing a room with a Klingon, but a Klingon midwife? That sends shivers down his spine.

It's widely acknowledged within the intragalactic medical community that the toughest, most fearsome medical practitioner is, hands down, the Klingon midwife. At conferences, Carrington Award-winning physicians live in fear of a professional debate with a Klingon midwife. Once, a Vulcan midwife-in-training found out her certification board would include a Klingon midwife, and she started weeping in the middle of ShiKahr. A Gorn obstetrician once tried to go against the labor plan created by a Klingon woman and her midwife, and that obstetrician has been in hiding ever since. It has been twelve years.

If Julian has to guess, Klingon midwives started striking fear into the hearts of alpha quadrant clinicians once it became widely known that Klingons work throughout their entire pregnancy, including the delivery. Stories began to circulate about Klingon midwives swinging bat'leths in one hand and tying umbilical cords with the other. Julian remembers hearing in med school of a Klingon ethnobotanist going into labor during a field study, and the midwife who had to repel halfway down a mountain to deliver the baby. In recent years, there have been rumors about Klingons giving birth in the captain's chair during a decisive battle and winning.

In the few minutes he has alone before his roommate arrives, Julian prepares himself mentally and physically, going over Klingon etiquette while practicing a few judo moves. As soon as he hears the door start to open, his arms fall to his side and he schools his face into a blank expression. (Julian has long given up on trying to intimidate Klingons with his face… or any other part of his body.) He's prepared for the worst, but not for the shock.

“Alexander!” he exclaims.

The boy—hardly a man—smiles, before remembering to bear his teeth, before giving that up for an awkward half-wave. “Hi.”

“Hi. What… What are you doing here?”

“Winning honor for the glory of the House of Martok.”

“By doing what exactly? You do know the war is over.”

“By being gracious in victory and assisting in the Cardassian restoration.”

Bashir narrows his eyes. “Can you win honor like that?”

“I hope so.”

“Best of luck… You wouldn't happen to know anything about a Klingon midwife volunteering here, would you? The housing coordinator didn't give me her name, so I can't look up anything about her.”

Alexander shakes his head. “As far as I know, I'm the only midwife here. And the only Klingon.”

Julian puts two and two together. “Wait, you're my roommate? You're the Klingon midwife?” Alexander nods. “When did that happen? I thought you were a weapons officer on the Ya'Vang.”

“I was.” Alexander squeezes past Julian, setting his luggage on the top bunk. (It looks like Julian won't be debating sleeping arrangements after all.) “My captain went into labor during the battle at Sitre 4. Her midwife was trapped under a fallen cargo crate, so she talked me through the labor. I was good enough that she offered me an apprenticeship.”

“And you took it?”

“Yeah. It was the first time I've ever been naturally good at something, so I took that as a sign.”

“Well, I'm sure your father must be very proud.”

Alexander ducks his head, mumbling incoherently.

“You haven't told him, have you?”

“No.”

“Why not? Midwifery is a perfectly honorable profession for a Klingon.”

“I know. I just don't want him to get his hopes up. What if I'm not as good as people think I am? What if I make a mistake? I don't want to disappoint him again.”

“Is that why you ran away to Cardassia?”

“Maybe,” Alexander murmurs.

Julian lays a hand on his shoulder. “You can't spend your entire life trying not to disappoint your father. You'll only end up resenting him. Believe me, I know.”

–

“This is worse than your father's bachelor party,” Julian grumbles, fanning himself.

“You didn't have to wear a tuxedo,” Alexander whispers.

A Vulcan standing at the front of the crowd turns around, shushing them. Julian nods and pretends to listen to the volunteer coordinator's introduction, before turning back to Alexander. “The only other formalwear I own is my dress uniform; I don't think that would go over very well. And, besides, if he's here, I'd like to be wearing something he made for me. You know, put him in the right mood. Capitalize on our previous relationship. Network. It's not what you know, it's who you know.”

Alexander looks over at him, his mouth open in horror. “But you're a doctor.”

“I didn't mean that literally. How have you not heard that ex—” He's cut off by applause as the volunteer coordinator steps off the stage. “Oh, thank god. I thought she'd never stop talking.”

“I know the feeling,” Alexander mutters.

“Come on.” Julian grabs him by the elbow, pulling him toward the center of the banquet hall. “Your public awaits.”

“I'm not sure about this. I was planning on hiding in the bathroom all night.”

“It'll give you a chance to practice your bedside manner.” Julian smiles gregariously at the nearest available Cardassian, a member of the supposedly free press if he's not mistaken. “Dr. Julian Bashir, physician. This is my colleague and fellow volunteer, Alexander Rozhenko, midwife.” Informed of Cardassian custom ahead of time, neither Julian nor Alexander attempt to shake hands, although Julian's not sure if that's because Alexander is paralyzed in fear.

“Kacet Tirlan, the Union Wire,” the Cardassian says. “Would you mind answering a few questions?”

“Absolutely not. That's what this evening is for.”

“As a genetically modified human and a human-Klingon hybrid, respectively, how would you respond to accusations that the Federation is using the volunteer corps as an opportunity to cast off societal rejects?”

“Er…”

Julian looks to Alexander. “Um…”

“I would say that…” Julian starts, “whoever is spreading that rumor is attributing a higher degree of skill in the art of deception than the Federation possesses.”

The reporter nods once and excuses herself, joining a group of other journalists clustered in the corner.

“Someone did her research,” Julian says.

“What are they doing over there?” Alexander asks, nodding over at the reporters.

“I don't know, but I'm going to find out. Are you alright on your own?”

“Now that the reporters are gone, yeah.”

“I'll find you when I'm done.” Julian makes his way through the throngs of mingling volunteers and Cardassian VIPs toward the mob of reporters. As he approaches, he's pleased to hear a familiar, lilting voice.

“—precisely why I initiated this program. Next question.” Garak. Jackpot.

Kacet Tirlan raises her hand. “Many citizens are concerned that the influx of foreign aid, particularly these new volunteers, will weaken the imperial powers of the provisional government, turning the Union into, to borrow a Human phrase, a 'republic of non-governmental organizations.' How would you respond to those concerns?”

“While those concerns clearly have a historical basis—” Garak spots Julian amongst the crowd and seamlessly code switches to untranslatable Kardasi. 

Most people use the disengagement function of the universal translator to say a few quick phrases rendered less meaningful in translation, like “deja vu” or Bajoran holy words or Klingon drinking songs. But Garak, of course, would use it to be insufferably mysterious. As Garak knows, Julian can't understand Kardasi worth a damn, but he manages to pick up a few words here and there: outworlders, strategically, children. Not nearly enough to understand what Garak is saying. Still, Julian enjoys watching an old friend do what he does best—lie. It's comforting somehow, like hearing Worf sing Klingon opera or smelling Sisko's cooking. If Julian just watches the way Garak gestures with his hands and lifts his browridges, he's transported back to a time when things were desperate and horrible but not as lonely.

Julian remains there, transfixed by sentimentality, until Garak wraps up the Q&A session. He makes a beeline towards Garak, dodging the questions of the dispersed reporters. Soon enough, he finds himself standing face-to-face with the man who made his suit and kidnapped his friends.

“My dear doctor,” Garak says, returning to translatable speech. “How lovely it is to see you again.”

“Garak—excuse me, _Gul_ Garak, isn't it?”

“For you, just Garak.”

“Plain, simple Garak.”

“Exactly.”

“So, _Garak_ , I hear your office has recruited three new employees from off-planet.”

“Doctor, I am positively flattered that you pay so much attention to the mundane details of my job.”

“Let's just say I have a personal interest in these employees. I'd like to see them.”

“What for?”

“I…” Julian lowers his voice. “I need to know that they're okay. For their families' sakes.”

Garak steps closers, practically whispering in Julian's ear. “You know as well as I do that their families have long stopped caring about my employees' well-being.”

“But I haven't.”

“Of course.” Garak places an acceptably Cardassian bubble of personal space between them. “I'll do what I can to arrange a meeting. You know, of course, that they have a every right to refuse. At least, now they do.” Garak brushes past Julian, heading towards the door, stopping briefly to say, “Doctor, your suit is just as becoming on you under the Cardassian moon as it was in the holosuite.”

Julian has no idea what Garak was getting at there—a mystery he finds deliciously intriguing.

–

They are, of course, expecting him when he arrives, a fact Garak still finds incredibly unnerving even after two weeks of knowing them. Garak is a man used to having his comings and goings recorded and anticipated—he is a Cardassian, after all—but by a well-funded intelligence organization with eyes everywhere, not by three overdeveloped humans shielded almost entirely from the outside world. Almost.

They stand in front of the house’s main entrance, their arms crossed over their chests like stern parents awaiting an adolescent out past curfew.

“We saw your interview tonight,” Lauren drawls by way of greeting. “The one at the welcoming reception for the outworld volunteers.”

“Oh? And what did you think?” Garak asks.

“Liar!” Jack says, pointing his finger in Garak's face. Another centimeter, and he would've taken Garak's eye out. He supposes Jack was aware of that. “You said Cardassia needs to use outworld volunteers strategically to rebuild and—and grow strong again.”

“That's not a lie.” He lowers Jack’s hand.

“Yes, but then—then you said that if outworlders were willing to send their children to Cardassia to work for the Union, then we should let them, because, and I quote, 'outworlders don't care for their children. At least, not the way we do.' You don't believe that. You don't believe that at all!” 

Garak brushes past them into the foyer. “Fine, you’ve caught me; I’m an incorrigible liar. Don’t tell my friends; they’ll be ever so disappointed.”

“You saw how a big, powerful man like Sisko,” Lauren says, her voice oozing with lust for the Emissary, “raised his son and you thought to yourself, my father could've been different.”

“Even though you were ashamed to think that,” Patrick adds.

Lauren circles around Garak like a Terran shark. The other two shadow her. “You loved your father, but he never appreciated you.”

Garak tries to step out of the trap they’ve made around him, but Patrick blocks his way. “Just like Cardassia,” Patrick says.

Garak spins around, looking for an opening to walk though, but Lauren is there in an instant. “Even though you were clever.”

“Too clever!” Jack interjects.

“You had to sit and watch as people far less competent than you basked in the glory of their service to the Cardassian Union,” Lauren says. “While you lurked in the shadows.”

Now, they’re talking and moving far too fast and close for Garak to register anything but an inescapable wall of motion and sound.

“The clever bastard who should be king,” Jack says.

“Ooh,” Patrick coos, tapping Jack on the shoulder. “The man in the iron mask.”

“Locked out of sight,” Lauren finishes.

Garak finds himself lifted off his feet and carried across the room into the—oh, no. The closet door locks.

“We won't be locked away again,” Jack shouts through the door.

Garak's airways constrict.

“And certainly not as one of your plans to ensnare Julian,” Lauren yells.

He won't beg.

“We're not stupid, Garak! We know why you brought us here!” Jack says.

If he didn't beg Enabran Tain, he certainly won't beg them.

“Now that we're here,” Lauren says, “you can't send us back.”

Closets seemed so much bigger when he was a child.

“We don't want to get locked up again, do you understand?” Jack asks. “Do you understand?”

Garak can't even croak a response their enhanced hearing could understand. The door swings open regardless, sending Garak falling face first into Patrick's arms.

“He knows,” Patrick tells the others, rubbing Garak's back.

“It got worse toward the end of the Dominion War,” Lauren says, figuring things out aloud.

“He was afraid he wouldn't be able to stay on the station.”

“Ah, but where would they put Garak then?” Jack asks.

“He knows,” Lauren says. “He knew it then.”

“To the loony bin with him!” 

Garak staggers away from Patrick, sense and oxygen returning to him. “If you ever do that to me again, I will—”

“We know.” Lauren winks.

“But we wouldn't,” Patrick says.

Jack grabs Garak, kissing both his cheeks. “You're one of us.”

What a frightening prospect.


	5. Nobody But Me is Going to Change My Story

As soon as Julian's shuttle has departed, Ezri emerges from her hiding place behind a column (a not insignificant part of her wanted to see Julian before he left, a bigger part of her was too mad to talk to him, so they compromised by lurking in the shadows). She hooks arms with Kira, eliciting a small jump of shock from the Colonel. (Seven years ago, Kira would've shot her.)

“Hi!” Ezri says.

“You're up early.”

“Early targ gets the gagh.” Ezri scratches the back of her head with her free hand. “Would you mind if I asked you a favor?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“Lenara and I are sort of throwing around the idea of leading a revolution on Trill. And we were wondering if you could give us a few pointers.”

“Let me get this straight. You want me to give you lessons on how to be a revolutionary?”

“Uh huh.” Dax nods. “You're the only person we know who has experience in this kind of thing. Besides Garak, but he seems to be a little busy kidnapping people right now.”

“Listen, you know I support you and Lenara…”

“But.”

“But, as a representative of Bajor, I can't risk plotting a revolution on a Federation planet.” She pauses. “I could however offer a few general suggestions on a purely hypothetical political movement.”

Ezri squeezes her hand. “Nerys, you're the best.”

“But after that you're on your own.”

–

Lenara runs her fifth scan of the symbiont since this morning. The results are the same: the stasis is holding, the symbiont remains (temporarily) inert. Despite the symbiont's consistently stable condition, Lenara continues to go through the motions of scanning it every hour. She's not entirely convinced that the stasis will hold as long as she was told; the provenance of the stasis tube is shady at best. God knows where it came from and how Lenara's contact (name unknown even to her) got ahold of it. Lenara has worked in the sciences for enough lifetimes to know that rare materials acquired through shady means could be worse than having no materials at all. 

There's also the issue of the symbiont's natural telepathy. In the Federation, it is standard procedure for telepaths in medical stasis to be treated only by doctors capable of shielding their thoughts from others. There is some (possibly unfounded) concern that, even in stasis, a telepath's brain can perceive the thoughts of others, which may result in neurological distress. Lenara isn't certain how much of that belief is based on hard facts and good science, and how much of it is based on obscure Vulcan cultural traditions. (Unfortunately, due to the dominance of Vulcans in Federation science, Lenara often has a hard time discerning whether an accepted scientific practice is actually a philosophical mandate from a Vulcan who died two millennia ago.) Even so, with a life in her hands (or, on her table, as it is), she keeps an extra-close watch for any signs of neurological distress in the symbiont.

It remains, as ever, healthfully inert. Which is good for the symbiont, but bad for the bored overqualified scientist watching over it. 

Lenara yawns, checking the chronometer again. Four more hours until Ezri gets off-duty. Four more hours until Lenara has company more stimulating than a comatose slug and a stack of astrophysics journals.

She gets an early reprieve when Ezri comes in a few minutes after lunch hour began, juggling two trays stacked high with food.

“I couldn't remember what you like to eat for lunch,” Ezri says, walking slowly, carefully, and somehow still awkwardly toward the kitchen table. “But then I remembered that Nilani liked cherog soup so I got some of that, and then I thought you might not like that so I just… sort of… ordered everything.”

Lenara rushes over to catch the tray in Ezri's right hand as it dips toward the deck. “Here. Let me.”

Together, they manage to get the food onto the table while still having room for the stasis tube. “How's the symbiont?”

“Stable as ever,” Lenara says, resuming her seat. “Did you talk to Colonel Kira?”

Ezri nods, sitting across from Lenara. “She wants to help—and she will—but keeping Bajor neutral comes first.”

“Understandable. How much help is she willing to give?” She blows on the steaming bowl of cherog soup.

“Not as much as we hoped. Right now, the only definite I got from her is a crash course on revolution planning in her quarters tonight.”

“That should be informative… although I must say…” She slurps at her soup. “…I'm a little disappointed that we can't rely on Kira Nerys, crusher of occupations, to swoop in and do our work for us.” She's only half-joking.

“I'm sure we'll able to manage on our own.” Ezri takes a big bite of bread. “I mean, all we have to do is follow Kira's directions. The Bajoran Militia has been doing that for years and, well, _Rom_ was in the Bajoran Militia, so…”

“How hard can it be?”

“Exactly.”

–

Ezri and Lenara sit on Kira's sofa, knees touching, styluses out and ready to take notes, while Kira sits across from them, elbows resting on her knees. “So,” Kira says, “I think this will work best if you two describe—in broad, anonymous, hypothetical terms—what you are having problems with.”

“Okay…” Ezri coughs. “So, I might have a friend who might have a new girlfriend—well, not really new. I mean, we've—they've been together before—but that's not really important. I mean, it is important. To them. Or, at least, to one of them.”

Lenara lays her hand on top of Ezri's. “To both of them.”

“Right. So, anyway, my friend and her girlfriend—is 'girlfriend' the right word? It sounds kind of juvenile. Jake has girlfriends.”

“Maybe partner?” Lenara offers.

“Partner,” Ezri tries the word out. “I'm not crazy about it, but it's better than girl—”

“So,” Kira interjects, “your friend and her _partner_ …”

“Right. My friend and her partner might be considering leading a revolution and might be having some issues with figuring out how to do that.”

“What have your friend and her partner figured out so far?”

Ezri and Lenara look to each other, wincing. “…that they might be considering leading a revolution,” Ezri says with a nervous, submissive grin, showing her teeth like a Terran primate.

“Your friend has no idea what she's doing.”

“I wouldn't go that far, but _yes_.”

“If I were to talk to your friend,” Kira says, standing from her chair, “I would tell her that every successful revolution starts with one word, an abstract idea—like freedom.”

“Or equality,” Lenara adds.

“Right. And then what you— _she_ , your friend—has to do is come up with a set of specific demands or goals that will achieve that abstract idea.”

“We have that,” Ezri says. “ _They_ have that.”

“Okay, so let me hear it.”

“Well, they want the Symbiosis Commission to revise its policies regarding joining and reassociation.”

“And what else?”

“That's it.”

Kira shakes her head. “That's not a revolution; that's paperwork.”

“To you perhaps,” Lenara says. “But for Trill…”

“I'm not saying it isn't a radical or subversive idea, but you have to understand that successful revolutions are broad, idealistic, _inclusive_ movements. If you want this to work, you have to move beyond what people say is possible—what the Symbiosis Commission says is possible.”

Kira starts pacing. “The first step to getting an occupying force out of power is getting them out of your head. Focus on the impossible. What are your wildest dreams for Trill society? What changes need to be made? What changes do other people want to be made? Who are those people? Find them. Get them to join you. Because if you two walk into negotiations with two demands, you'll walk out with one or none of them met. Any gains you'll make that way, will be by selling your soul.”

Kira stands still, facing Lenara and Ezri head on. “I'm not gonna sugarcoat this for you. You two need to toughen up, put down your PADDs and pick up some rocks, be ready to shed some blood for this.”

–

The door slides shut and Ezri crumples to floor with an overblown sigh. “So that was fun.”

Lenara walks around her, heading straight to the symbiont and her tricorder. “Kira certainly doesn't beat around the bush.”

“No. She wouldn't be Kira if she did.” Ezri stares up at Lenara's hands shakily holding the stasis tube and her tricorder. “Are you okay?”

Lenara shakes her head wordlessly.

“What's wrong?” Ezri scoots closer to her, rubbing her hand along the back of her calf.

Lenara fumbles with the tricorder, taking a reading of the symbiont. “I feel incredibly foolish for thinking this would be easy, for thinking six lifetimes of experiences could prepare me for this, when, if anything, they make this even harder.”

“I know.” Ezri gives Lenara' leg a squeeze. “Together, we've got seven centuries of conditioning telling us this is wrong. But we can fight against it. I know we can.”

“That's easy for you to say. You've got a little Curzon inside you. None of Kahn's hosts have ever been so… irreverent as him.”

“You're right. But none of your hosts have been field docents like Curzon or Jadzia.”

Lenara nods. “And none of my hosts have been head of the Symbiosis Commission like Audrid.”

“Exactly. We've both got a lot of baggage to work through. But we're joined Trill; we're used to that. At least, you are.”

“I know.” Lenara settles on the floor next to Ezri, setting down the stasis tube and tricorder beside her. “But there's a lot more worrying me than echoes from my past hosts.”

“Like what?”

“How far do you think we'll need to go to get our demands met?”

Ezri swallows. “As far as we have to.”

“That's what concerns me.”

“It may not seem like it now, but when the times comes, we'll be ready and willing to—”

“I'm already ready. I'm already willing. I have been since walked onto this station, and that terrifies me. I'm not… I'm not like Dax. I don't throw myself into another destiny every time the wind changes. I don't have your passion.”

“I don't know. You seem pretty passionate to me.”

“Yes, about you. About Nulat. About everything that is wrong on Trill. I've cared more deeply, more fully these past two weeks than I ever have in Kahn's life. And, frankly, I'm frightened of where that emotional investment will lead me.”

“You don't have to be frightened when you're with me,” Ezri murmurs. “I'm here for you. For whatever you need.”

“But what happens when you're not here? What happens when the Symbiosis Commission drags you away to the fifth moon for questioning? _I won't lose you again._ ”

Ezri takes Lenara's hands in her own. “Then you do whatever you have to do to get me back. And I'll do whatever I can to get back to you. I promise.”

“I'm willing to do things—for you, for Nulat—that I'm not sure I can live with.”

“You'd be surprised what you can live with. If I learned anything from the war, it's that… And that Vulcans make for great baseball players, but that's besides the point.”

Lenara smiles. “You're too cute, you know that?”

“I've been told so on occasion.”

“And so humble.”

“I think humility is the first thing to go when you hear someone say, ' _Oh, Ezri,'_ ” she moans breathily, rubbing her hands over her breasts, “'you're the best!' every night.”

“Then I guess I should stop saying that.”

Ezri leans forward, resting her hands on Lenara's thighs. “I'd like to see you try.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“For me?” Ezri drops a kiss just below Lenara's left ear. “Or for you?” And another below her right ear.

Lenara whispers, “For both of us,” before pulling Ezri on top of her.

–

Ezri rests her head on Lenara's tummy, both of them flush with sweat even on the cold floor. “So, who's the best?” she murmurs, tracing patterns on Lenara's skin with her finger.

Lenara snorts, her stomach muscles flexing under Ezri's head. “You cheated.”

“I won fair and square. You said it.”

“I was coerced. You threatened to leave me to a cold sonic shower.”

“Aw, you don't think I'd really do that to you?”

“I know you would. You've got a sadistic streak a hundred parsecs wide.”

“I'll show you sadistic.” She blows a raspberry on Lenara's belly, sending her into a fit of giggles.

“ _Ezri!_ ” Lenara gasps, her head rolling from side to side. “Cut it out! Ezri… Stop.”

Ezri pulls away. “Are you okay?”

Lenara nods. “ _Look_.”

Resting beside them, seemingly watching them, is the symbiont somehow broken free of its stasis tube.

“Oh my god.”


	6. A City of Strangers

On Cardassia, everyone rises with the sun, rejoicing in the warmth on their skin, the banishment of the cold night. Everyday starts with a celebration, a greeting of the sun, a reaffirmation of one's loyalties to the State.

Except in the volunteer compound, where mornings and nights have no correlation to the relative movement of the sun, but are rigidly scheduled and parceled out based on one's work assignment. The volunteers may sleep in the capital city, but their sleep patterns are localized to their volunteer site. Some people wake as soon as the sun sets over the capital to scarf down breakfast and transport to the other side of the world. Every hour, on the hour, another group is woken, dressed, inspected, fed, and transported away to a part of the planet where the locals rejoice in the rising sun.

Julian is fortunate; he and Alexander are assigned to a northern continental village at roughly the same longitude as the capital city. At the very least, his sleep schedule won't interfere with his investigations in the city, where Garak no doubt works and resides.

Even so, waking at sunrise is no party—no matter what timezone you're in.

“This has officially stopped being fun,” Julian says, watching a watery oatmeal-like substance drip off his spoon back into the bowl.

“It's not supposed to be fun.” Alexander chugs down a glass of something that might be orange juice, wincing at the aftertaste. “This is service.”

“Yeah, but aren't we supposed to be gaining valuable, life-changing experience? So far, all I've learned is twelve different ways to greet a gul.”

“Things should be better now that we're done with training.”

“Yeah, we'll actually get to start helping people now. Make a difference.” Julian puts down his spoon and gazes off into the distance (which, in that cramped of a space, is just a wall half a meter from them). “You know, for as long as I've been practicing medicine, I still get that same feeling deep in my chest when I've helped a patient and they look up at me like I'm…”

“God?”

“No, no,” Julian chortles. “Nothing so divine. An angel, maybe. Or a messiah.” He picks up his spoon. “I suppose none of your patients look at you like that, being Klingon and all.”

Alexander shrugs. “It's probably a good thing; we killed our gods.”

“Well, I imagine when we do get out into the field, you'll find our Cardassian patients will be much more grateful.”

–

“So, you're the Federation swine the capital sent to help us?” a woman spits, literally the moment Julian and Alexander materialize in the village square.

The citizens greeting the sun immediately stare up at them, some openly sneering, some muttering things in Kardasi Julian can't understand, all thoroughly unimpressed.

Julian manages a smile. “Yes. I'm Dr. Julian Bashir.”

“The mutant,” the woman says loud enough for everyone in the square to hear. “They sent us the mutant.” She looks Alexander up and down. “And you must be the Klingon half-breed.”

“Quarter-breed, actually,” Alexander corrects.

“Even better. A Federation pig and a Klingon targ.”

Julian steps forward. “Ma'am, I realize that you may not have the best opinion of the Federation or the Klingon Empire, but Alexander and I are here to help. Not as mutants or quarter-breeds, but as people.”

“How touching. And, as people, how much experience do you have treating Cardassians?”

“Seven years worth, actually.”

“How many?”

“What?”

“How many Cardassians have you treated?”

Julian purses his lips. “Three.”

“And how many of them are still alive?”

“One.”

“And, you, boy, how many Cardassian children have you delivered?”

“None, ma'am,” Alexander says.

The woman turns away from them, addressing the crowd. “You see? This is exactly what I have been telling you. The capital has taken all the professional, _Cardassian_ relief workers with experience for themselves and are sending us amateurs!”

“That may be the case,” Julian says, “but Alexander and I are still here to help any way that we can.”

“Really?” the woman says. “And you think your Federation ego can handle that?”

“Ma'am, in all matters, my 'Federation ego' takes a backseat to the health, wellness, and safety of my patients, specifically the people of your village.”

This is how Julian signs himself up for digging a well by hand in the heat of the midday sun. He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

“Need a break, human?” asks Limuk, the local engineer supervising the dig.

“No.” Julian picks up his shovel, thrusting it deep in the ground. “I'm just not accustomed to working in this kind of heat.”

Limuk chuckles. “You're lucky you weren't assigned to the southern continent. It's summer there.”

“This—” Julian foists his shovel out of the ground, throwing the dirt into a pile aboveground. “This is _winter_?”

“Yes. Can't you feel the chill in the air?”

“Are putting me on, Limuk?”

Limuk claps him on the back of the head, a typical friendly Cardassian gesture. “It is not our custom.”

“To mess with the new guy?”

“To tell him when we are.” Limuk takes Julian's shovel from his hands. “Take a break.”

“No.” Julian reaches for the shovel, which Limuk hides behind her back. “I'm fine. I can make it to midmeal.”

“Doctor, if you die down here, you'll contaminate the well.”

“Fine.” Julian laughs, pulling himself up and out of the half-dug well. He crawls to the shade, resting against a yucca-like tree. “How long have you been doing this?”

“This well?” Limuk sends a shovelful of soil to the surface, spraying Julian's face with a mist of dirt as it hits the pile. “A fortnight.”

“I mean, in general. How long have you been an engineer?”

“Thirty-four years.”

“Really? That's extraordinary. Where did you go to university?”

“I didn't. I trained on the job while I was in the military.”

“Is that common?”

“For people from this continent, yes. Most of the positions at the universities are unofficially reserved for legacies; you have to be someone's daughter to get in. The best shot people around here have at getting an education is apprenticing or enlisting in the military and hoping you'll be placed in the right field. The one engineer my village had was killed in a terrorist attack after she was conscripted to reinforce supply lines in Bajor. So, I enlisted and was lucky.”

“You served on Bajor?” Julian asks, trying to use as neutral terms as possible.

“Until the occupation ended. After that, I was discharged and sent home. With no more terrorists blowing up their own planet's infrastructure, the military didn't need as many engineers, and they certainly weren't going to keep me on the payroll when guls' nieces and daughters and cousins needed positions.”

"At least you got to come back home. Serve your people, mentor the next generation of engineers."

"For a while, yes. But then the war began and all of our young people were sent to fight and defend the Dominion. Even engineering apprentices. The Jem'Hadar required a lot of support staff to do their engineering work for them. I don't know why the Founders chose to make them all male; none of them were born with a head for science." Limuk looks up over the edge of the well. "No offense, doctor."

"None taken." Julian stands up, stretching. "I've been insulted much worse for being genetically engineered and… er…" He tries to think of a term to explain 21st century human racism to a 24th century Cardassian. "…for my lineage than I've ever been for my gender." He drops back down into the well. "So, I don't pay any misandrist slights much mind…" He grins at her mischievously. "But call me an Augment menace to society or a dim, and I'll thwack you over the head with that shovel."

Limuk elbows him playfully in the stomach. "Are you putting me on, Dr. Bashir?"

"It's not human custom to tell."

She cuffs him on the back of his head. "Get back to work."

He takes his shovel and resumes digging. "So what did you do during the Dominion occupation, if you don't mind my asking?"

Limuk drags her shovel over from the shaded area, pulling it down into the well. “Upkeep, mostly. Even before the Dominion started leveling whole cities, the occupation was destroying our infrastructure just by diverting resources to the war front.” Limuk gets a good shovelful of soil and throws it over her shoulder. “The Dominion promised prosperity for Cardassia, but not a single new building was built during the occupation. Everything that was there before they invaded started to crumble from neglect. I did everything I could to keep Tocat in tact, but during the last days of the occupation… We were lucky compared to Lakarian City, but our electrical grid is offline, streets are destroyed, the ground water is contaminated—”

“Contaminated?” Julian asks. “Still?”

Limuk nods.

“Then why are we digging?”

“Kiltar has devised methods of decontaminating the water. It's time and labor intensive, but it affords us more water than the monthly supply drops deliver.”

“Kiltar? Is she another engineer?”

“No. A chemist.”

“I look forward to meeting her.”

"You already have."

"Hmm?"

"Kiltar was the woman who gave you and your friend such a warm welcome to the village."

"On second thought, I don't think I look forward to meeting her again."

"I'd like to say she'll warm up to you, but she's not the kind… She never wanted you people coming here in the first place."

"Why? Besides her theory that the capital is hoarding all the competent relief workers for themselves."

Limuk wipes a bit of dirt from her forward. "Kiltar is wary of having outworlders on planet, especially ones the capital invited. The last time that happened, things didn't turn out so well."

"We're not the Dominion; we're here to help."

"Just like we were there to help the Bajorans. Don't gape at me like that; I might have been a military grunt, but I never let my loyalty to Cardassia mask my perception of what was happening on the ground."

"Yet you continued to serve."

She shrugs. "I didn't have much of a choice. I could either rot here or learn a trade on Bajor and send my pay back to my family. Not that I was paid very much, but it was more than what I would have made working three jobs here."

"I imagine the Jem'Hadar could say the same thing."

"Of course. That's the nature of the universe. There's always someone with something you need who can make you do whatever they want to get it."

"It's not like that everywhere. I mean, it doesn't have to be that way."

"I find that hard to believe. These eyes have seen too much… But there are people—people who've never strayed far from Tocat—who believe things could change. Kiltar among them.”

“Really? She didn't strike me as particularly optimistic.”

Limuk stops working and stares at Julian, quirking her head to the side. “Why not?”

“Well, the only time I've spoken to her, she was standing in the middle of the town square, yelling about how awful things are.”

“What else would she be doing?”

“I don't know. Laughing, smiling, talking hopefully about the future.”

“Ah,” Limuk says, returning to digging. “That's where humans and Cardassians differ.”

“Just there?” Julian smirks.

“When a human is optimistic, he laughs, he smiles, he does a little happy dance—”

“Ah, yes, the traditional Terran jig. The most common expression of optimism amongst my proud people.”

“But Cardassians… we don't experience optimism as happiness. To be optimistic is to believe that things will get better, and, in order to do that, you have to acknowledge that things are bad or, at least, imperfect.”

“And doing that makes you yell at well-meaning strangers in the street?”

“I'll admit Kiltar might have been a bit excessive.”

“A bit? She practically bit my head off.”

“It hasn't been easy around here. Tempers are short. We have barely enough water to drink, never enough food to eat, too many people to a room. But, _tiyal nokt hoon_ , what can we do but be angry about it?”

–

Julian collapses on his bunk. “I can't do this anymore. I'm not designed for manual labor.”

“It's only been a week,” Alexander says, combing out his hair in the dorm's tiny mirror.

“That's easy for you to say. 'Only been a week.' You get to spend all day inside talking to the village's one pregnant woman.”

“Not all day.”

“Of course, how could I forget? Sometimes you go outside to hang her laundry out to dry. Meanwhile, I'm digging a well all day by hand in the Cardassian sun. Look at this hand.” Julian holds out his left hand, smacking Alexander's leg in the cramped quarters. “Last week, this was a surgeon's hand and now it's blistering sandpaper. And, of course, I forgot to pack any moisturizer.”

“You could probably pick some up tomorrow when we tour the city.”

“Oh, the tour,” Julian groans. “I'd forgotten about that. I thought I had tomorrow off.”

“It might be fun.”

“Fun? No. A Cardassian conspiracy to make us so exhausted that we give up Federation state secrets? Possibly.”

“I don't think you whined this much at my dad's bachelor party.”

“At least I knew Worf's bachelor party was going to end. This? It could take Garak weeks to get back to me, if he even does so at all.”

“Can't you contact him?”

“How? I don't know where he lives or where he works or how to get ahold of him. And besides that… there are rules to espionage. If your contact tells you to await his message, you can't go out looking for him unless you want to compromise your mission or find your contact hacked up with a meat cleaver and stuffed in your mailbox.”

“Do you really think Garak could get hacked up with a meat cleaver?”

“No, of course not. He's not my love interest.”

“Wait, what?”

“That sort of thing only happens to people a spy cares about, like a Soviet woman in a slinky dress whose importance as an informant is only paralleled by her importance as a lover.”

“Has any of this stuff ever occurred outside of a holosuite?”

–

Julian is mastering the art of sleeping while walking when Alexander pinches him hard in the side. “What?” he hisses, batting Alexander's hand away.

“Sorry,” Alexander whispers, “I thought you'd want to see this.”

“No, I don't want to see any of it. That's why my eyes were closed.”

“Gentleman,” the tour guide says sharply, glaring at them from the front of the tour group, “do you have any questions?”

“No, ma'am,” Julian and Alexander mumble.

“Good.” She returns to smiling at the group. “On your left, you'll see the Imperial Plaza, home to the administrative headquarters of the Cardassian Union. This was one of the first areas to undergo reconstruction following the withdrawal of the Dominion and has since become the center of operations for reconstruction efforts. In fact, the Cardassian Relief Volunteer Corps, of which you are all a part, came out of Gul Garak's office right—” She points to a window high in the administrative building. “—there. Up ahead, you'll see the newly sculpted monument to…”

Julian grabs Alexander by the elbow. “This is my chance.”

“What?”

“My chance to find Garak. He works in that building up there. We just have to sneak away from the group, stake out his office, and follow him. I bet he'll lead us right to Jack and the others.”

“Us? We? What about…” Alexander lowers his voice to a barely audible whisper. “…meat cleaver?”

“It'll be fine. I have a plan.”

–

“I don't like this plan,” Alexander says over his comm, keeping himself crouched behind a bush.

“It's a good plan,” Bashir responds, likewise behind a bush. “Hold on—there he is!”

“Where?”

“Eight o'clock.”

“…that's not a direction; that's a time.”

“Are you telling me you've never seen an analog clock?”

“A what?”

Julian sighs. “He's coming out of the doors to the left of that statue.”

“I see him!”

“Good. Now, go!”

Alexander takes off after Garak, trailing him by half a city block. When Julian can just barely see Alexander's head in the distance, he vacates his position behind the bush and follows after him. Julian comms Alexander. “Where is he now?”

“Heret and Ghemor.”

“Has he spotted you yet?”

“No… yes.”

“What did he do?”

“He disappeared.”

“What?”

“He disappeared. He was there one second and then gone the next.”

“Yes, I understand what disappeared means, Alexander. What I don't understand is how—hold on.” Julian spies Garak's signature watermelon get-up heading down an alley. “I've got him.” He jogs across the street and into the alley, stalking Garak silently into a doorway. With his prey cornered, Julian grabs Garak by the shoulder, spinning him around.

To find that he isn't Garak. The Cardassian is nearly identical to Garak, close enough to be his…

Doppleganger.

Julian preemptively raises his hands over his head.

The doppleganger nods his head and three plainclothes operatives appear out of nowhere, snapping cuffs on Julian's wrists, searching him for weapons, and putting a bag over his head.

Welcome to Cardassia.


	7. If You Want a Future, Why Don't You Get a Past?

“Oh my god.” Ezri scuttles away from the symbiont, throwing a concealing arm over her bare breasts. “How did it get out of stasis?”

“I don't know,” Lenara says, fumbling with the tricorder, apparently unconcerned with her present state of undress. “It's body mass has increased by five percent, it must have busted out of the tube.”

“It got bigger? Why?”

“I'm not sure, but my best guess is that…” Lenara gulps. “…certain telepathic stimuli triggered a growth spurt.”

“So… we triggered its puberty?”

“In a matter of speaking, yes. Symbionts are like any other animal; they thrive and mature best when exposed to nurturing, intriguing stimuli.”

Ezri covers her face with her palm. “What do we do now? How long can it stay out like this?”

“I don't know, but I have someone I can ask.” Lenara fishes her comm out of her pants' pocket. “Hopefully, they pick up.” She speaks into the comm, “Phantom to Compass.”

After a few seconds, a distorted voice answers, “Compass here.”

"I have a problem. The package broke free of the stasis chamber. Can you get me another?"

"Not before the package expires."

"What do I do?"

"Submerge the package in the traditional place. Compass out."

Lenara puts down the comm. "That was great help."

"What did they mean by 'the traditional place?'" Ezri asks. "Is that a resistance base?"

Lenara shakes her head. "We need to get the symbiont into a pool as soon as possible."

"Oh." Ezri snorts. "I guess we'll just drop it off at the Caves of Mak’ala."

"That seems to be only the option. There's no place else in the galaxy where symbionts are bred and raised. But we can't bring the symbiont back to Trill. Not without blowing our covers and exposing the resistance."

Ezri grabs Lenara's forearm. "I have an idea. If we can't go to Trill, why not bring Trill to us?"

–

"Quark!" Ezri shouts over the din of the bar.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite reassociated Trill. What can I get for the two of you?"

"Do you have a holosuite program with the Caves of Mak’ala?"

"Of course." Quark pulls out the program catalogue. "Sacred, forbidden places are hot holosuite commodities. Say, would either of you be interested in taking a peep inside the hallowed Salt Lake Temple in Hew-tah?”

“Maybe later,” Ezri says. “Right now, we need to see the Caves of Mak’ala.”

Quark taps out a few keystrokes on the catalogue. “For how long?”

Lenara grimaces. “The next fifty years.”

Quark smiles widely, passing her the catalogue PADD. “Alright, that'll be two hundred bars of latinum, payment upfront please.”

“Quark,” Ezri says, “we can't afford that.”

He takes back the catalogue. “Then you can't afford the program.”

“Can't you cut us a deal?”

“That was a deal. At any other Ferengi holosuite, you'd be paying tax on top of that.”

“Please,” Lenara says, “this is a matter of life and death.”

“I'm sorry. I have a business to run. I can't let you take up one of my holosuites without paying.”

“You let Vic do it,” Ezri says.

“That's different; Vic helped my nephew.”

“And I didn't?”

“No! That's why he was living in a holoprogram.”

Lenara leans over the bar. “What if there was a way to run the program without taking up one of your holosuites? Would you give it to us then?”

“No. But I'd sell it to you.”

“How much?”

“Fifteen strips.”

“Twelve.”

“Thirteen and five slips.”

“Deal.” Lenara takes the PADD from Quark, signing it with her credit line.

Quark pulls a program cylinder out from under the bar, exchanging it for the PADD. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.” He heads into the back of the bar, mumbling something about Trill teasing him with the profit of a lifetime.

Ezri stares at Lenara curiously, narrowing her eyes. “What do you have planned, Kahn?”

–

“You want to put _what_ in my program?” Vic shouts, drawing the attention of quite a few holographic patrons at the bar.

“A symbiont pool,” Lenara responds. “It's a pool where Trill symbionts live.”

“You know, I managed to gather that on my own. What I don't get is why you two need one. Specifically in _my_ program.”

Ezri and Lenara share a look. “We can trust him,” Ezri says.

Lenara steps closer to Vic, and says quietly, “Ezri and I have come into possession of a symbiont. It was in stasis, but now it needs to live in a pool or it will die.”

“Oh, that's rough,” Vic says, his tone calmer. “But why don't you just take it Trill? There are symbiont pools there, right?”

“Yes, but…”

“It's a bit more complicated than that,” Ezri finishes.

Vic sighs, shaking his head, muttering something in Italian. “The symbiont's hot, isn't it?”

Lenara furrows her brow. “Not particularly.”

“I mean, is it stolen?”

“As much as a sentient being can be stolen, yes.”

Ezri touches Vic on the elbow. “We have the symbiont, because we think we can provide a better life for it than the Symbiosis Commission could. If we return the symbiont to Trill, it'll go right back into a toxic system rife with inequality.”

“A place where the Dax and Kahn symbionts would be left to die, just because Ezri and I are in love,” Lenara adds. 

“A place where symbionts' joinings are restricted based on centuries' old prejudices.”

“A place where symbionts are leveraged as political pawns to keep the Symbiosis Commission in power.”

“So,” Vic cuts in, “not a good place?”

“No,” Lenara says, “not at all.”

“Letting us incorporate the symbiont pool code into your program would save the symbiont from going back there,” Ezri says.

“And, in time, it might even save all of Trill society.”

“You two are planning something, aren't you?” Vic asks. “Something big?”

“We understand if you don't want to be a part of it.”

“You kidding me? It's not everyday a hologram gets to change the world outside his program.”

“So,” Ezri says, “you're in?”

“I'm in.”

–

“Alright,” Lenara says, closing the arch control panel. “We're patched. Computer, engage subroutine Kahn-1 in Set-1a.”

A small symbiont pool materializes in the corner of Vic's bar, unfortunately, on top of an existing table and chairs and two out-of-towners sampling the shrimp cocktail. Fortunately, it is a quick, holographic death. Messy, but quick.

“For crying out loud,” Vic grumbles. “Donny, get the mop!” He glares over at Lenara. “What the hell happened?”

“I don't know.” She looks over her programming PADD. “Everything patched seamlessly.”

“Seamlessly? Two people are dead! You're lucky I know people in the mob or you'd have to program that pool into my jail cell.”

“I'm sorry. I assumed the new subroutine would override the existing layer.”

“No, subroutines layer on top of existing material. Literally. Holoprograms haven't been coded like that in decades.”

Lenara pokes her head inside the control panel. “I don't understand why they had to change things around. The way we made it the first time worked perfectly.”

“You used to work in the holo-business?”

“One of my previous hosts did.”

Vic's eyes widen. “Chilar Kahn.”

“That was the one.”

“You were Chilar Kahn? That was you?”

“Yes. You've heard of me?”

“Heard of you?” Vic crosses the room toward Lenara, navigating around the symbiont pool/crime scene. “I've had your name memorized ever since I became self-aware. You were part of the team that invented the holosuite.”

“We called it a holographic recreation room back then.”

“Still, you're the reason I'm standing here. If it weren't for the rec rooms on 23rd century starships, the holographic entertainment industry never would've been born and neither would—”

“Damn.” Lenara slams the control panel shut. “The protocols of your program can't be altered without a creator override. It could take weeks to get the program back from Felix.” She looks up at Vic. “Do you have any way of editing your own program?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

–

“Lieutenant,” Nog grunts, throwing his full weight at Vic's entertainment unit, “I appreciate that you would ask me for help, but I don't get why we're doing this.”

Ezri rests her back on a flat edge of the unit, using her legs to push backwards. “Vic wanted to move some furniture around.”

“In every room in his program? In the exact same spot?”

“Okay, I think we're clear.” She slides to the floor, taking a deep breath.

Nog steps away from the entertainment unit, bending over, resting his hands on his knees. “What are you hiding down here?”

“We're not hiding anything.”

“Oh, come on. You think you're the first person to stash something in a holosuite? I've been doing that since I learned to steal.”

“So, before you could walk.”

“I'm not going to tell anyone; I'm just curious what you would have to hide.”

“Something that could get you in a lot of trouble if you knew about it.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Nothing that your father could get you out of without causing an intragalactic incident.”

“Then maybe I don't want to know.”

“Smart boy. Let's get the next room.”

–

“Everything's clear,” Ezri says, wiping her sweaty hands on her pants. “How's the symbiont?”

Lenara adjusts the symbiont in her arms. “Holding on. If this doesn't work…”

“It'll work.”

Vic comes out from behind the bar. “You folks ready?”

“We better be,” Lenara says. “Computer, engage subroutine Kahn-1 throughout Bashir 62.” 

The symbiont pool rematerializes in the bar, surrounded by curtains (a temporary measure added by Lenara to keep away prying eyes), the area now cleared of furniture and hapless patrons. Lenara parts the curtains and gently places the symbiont in the pool where it gets to swimming. Lenara runs a tricorder over it. “All life-sign values are improving.”

“Yes,” Ezri gasps.

Lenara pockets the tricorder. “How do we know if the subroutine is stable throughout the program?”

“You check,” Vic says.

Lenara looks to Ezri. “Fine,” Ezri says. “I'll go. You watch the symbiont.” She takes off at a sprint out of the bar, staggering back in three hours later drenched on sweat. She collapses on the floor next to the pool, resting her head on Lenara's lap.

“You smell,” Lenara laughs.

“I would slap you for that if I could feel my arms.”

“I'm glad to see Starfleet keeps its officers in peak physical condition.”

“I'm a counselor, not a furniture mover.” Ezri rolls on to her side, nuzzling her head against Lenara's leg.

“Don't get too comfortable; your shift starts in two hours.”

Ezri groans, covering her head with her arms. “Give me five minutes, then I'll shower.”

“Fine. Five minutes.” Lenara feels Ezri's breathing slow as she drops off to sleep.

She doesn't wake her for an hour.


	8. Those Good and Crazy People--My Friends

The hood comes off and Julian finds himself in a windowless room smaller than his medical supply closet on DS9. He's almost disappointed. No drugs, no manacles, no four lights. Just a chair in a room.

The situation on Cardassia is apparently more dire than Julian realized.

He takes a seat, surprised that he wasn't tied to the chair by his unseen captors, but grateful all the same. The chair is uncomfortable enough without being shackled down. He imagines this is what the art of Cardassian torture has been reduced to: a cold, hard chair in an empty room. It's almost sad, really, this level of devastation to their culture. Julian feels something akin to pity… at least, for the first fifteen minutes he spends in the room alone, waiting. Then comes fear, anger, the realization that he's being toyed with, wound up like a top, left to sweat and fret, completely powerless to the whims of his captors.

He can't see how, but he knows he's being observed, monitored so that the interrogators can begin at his most distressed, like farmers waiting to pluck a fruit at the peak of ripeness. Not content to sit there like a damn heirloom tomato on vine, Julian gives himself an unfair advantage, hoping that whoever is monitoring him is running a bioscan as well. Slowly, he raises his pulse and blood pressure, sends adrenaline coursing through his system and sweat dripping down his skin, dilates his pupils to the point where even the low Cardassian lighting gives him a headache.

This reels them in.

Two Cardassian males—different in height than the men who collared him, meaning they're specialists—crowd into the room, towering over Bashir. They're devoid of the standard Cardassian military get-up Dukat and Damar favored, wearing instead the Cardassian equivalent of casual wear. These men aren't guls or even military; they could slip away into a crowd in a second's notice, fleeing any culpability for their actions in that room.

Julian swallows, trying to wet his parched mouth. “Why am I being held here?”

The interrogators ignore his question. “Dr. Bashir,” the shorter one says, as the taller looms behind him, “why did you separate from your touring group?”

“I was bored. Is that a crime?”

“Why did you corner a Mr. Uro Flentar in the alley at the intersection of Seret and Coher?”

“I thought he was a friend. I wanted to say hello.”

“Which friend would that be?”

“Gul Elim Garak. He was a patient of mine on Deep Space Nine. We used to eat lunch together once a—”

The taller man announces to seemingly no one, “The subject freely admits to stalking a representative of the Cardassian government.”

“What? I wasn’t stalking; I know him!”

“The subject will be remanded to state custody until an appropriate trial can be—”

Julian is mentally saying goodbye to his friends, family, and civil liberties when the door swings open.

“Oh, my dear doctor,” Garak croons, “what trouble you've made for these poor agents. Honestly, my dear, do you understand how much paperwork this display has caused? And keep in mind that, unlike some people, these fine men aren't doctors who have nurses to file charts for them.” Garak smiles at the agents. “I do hope you'll forgive him. He just can't seem to wrap his genetically-engineered head around our customs. A deficit in his education, I'm sure.”

The agents share a look before the shorter one says, “Of course, gul. We will wipe this from the record, immediately.”

“Splendid.”

The agents awkwardly shuffle out of the room, squeezing past Garak.

Once the door shuts, Garak turns his gaze to Julian “Oh, whatever am I to do with you?” he asks, his tone just as syrupy-sweet as before. “I don't know what could've possessed you to try to approach a gul on the street. You know that's considered rude and imposing—even when you're as close as we are.”

Julian forces a coquettish smile. “I just wanted to see you. You hardly have any time for me anymore.”

“And you couldn't wait?”

“You know I can't.” Julian turns on the puppy dog eyes. “I never can with you.”

“Oh, my darling Julian.” Garak steps forward, pressing his knees against Julian's. “You must learn to control your human impulses.”

Julian runs his finger along the cuff of Garak's shirt. “I thought you liked my human impulses.”

“I do, but there is a time and there is a place for them and that is not in public. I think you learned that now.”

“I did.”

“Good. Then all is forgiven.” Garak holds up his hand, palm facing Julian, who presses his own hand against it. “Let's get you home.”

–

Garak's hovercar, cool and spacious, pilots easily through the atmospheric thoroughfare, every bus and car yielding to him. Guls, apparently, get the right of way. Julian sits silently in the passenger's seat, unsure of who or what could be listening in on them. Bloody Cardassia.

Apparently, no one, because Garak starts in on him sans pretense. “For someone who believes they are so intelligent, you can be so incredibly, infuriatingly ignorant. Did you really think you could follow a gul, the liaison to the Federation, home without consequences? _In Cardassia?_ We may have fallen far, but not that far, doctor. You are just lucky that I was able to spot Alexander before my security detail did. Do you know what him getting caught would've done to Cardassia's relationship with the Klingon Empire? I barely managed to save you from trial.” Garak's hands grip the wheel tight enough to turn his scales white. “You could have been killed.”

“And I'd have you to thank for it,” Julian snaps.

“Me? I'm not the one playing spy games like Cardassia is their own personal holosuite.”

“You're a gul in a government that executes people without the benefit of a fair trial, which I know you believe is wrong or you wouldn't have rescued me.”

“I would've rescued you—” Garak stops himself, taking a few deep breaths. The confinement of the hovercar must be getting to him. “I'm trying to change things, but there's only so much one man can do.”

“That apparently includes kidnapping three vulnerable people from—”

“Vulnerable?” Garak scoffs. “Doctor, your friends are a loaded gun.”

“One that you're going to use to do your bidding, no doubt.”

“No doubt.” Garak pulls the hovercar in front of the volunteer dormitory, lowering it to street level. “Good night, doctor.”

“Good night, Garak.” Julian opens the car door.

“Wait.” Garak holds out a PADD. “Give this to the volunteer coordinator; it will excuse your absence.”

“Thanks.” Julian takes the PADD, stepping out the car which speeds up and away almost immediately after. Walking into the dormitory, Julian looks over the PADD, but most of it is unrecognizable Cardassian symblage, all except for Garak's pristine signature at the bottom. Garak is Garak in every language, he supposes.

The volunteer coordinator is waiting for him behind the entry desk with three security officers. “Dr. Bashir, you missed the tour.”

“Yes… I was… Here.”

She scans the PADD, tutting as she reaches the end. “Very well. Lights out for your shift is in forty minutes.”

“Yes, ma'am.” As he heads down the hallway towards his dorm, he can hear the coordinator and the security officer tittering over the PADD, gossiping in Kardasi, but Julian has a pretty good idea of what they're saying.

Meet Dr. Julian Bashir, Gul Garak's ambitious little pet.

When he gets to the dorm, Julian is expecting Alexander to be angry or concerned, but Alexander doesn't look up from his PADD. “You're back,” he says. “How was your trip?”

“Uneventful.” Julian strips out of his sticky, smelly volunteer uniform, rifling through his drawers for his pajamas. “I can't wait to get to bed.”

“I hope you're not too tired to learn that Russian folk song I was telling you about.”

“What?”

“ _The one my grandparents taught me._ ”

“Oh, right. The one your grandparents taught you. How does it go again?”

Alexander starts singing in a shaky tenor in completely untranslatable Russian, which Julian is fortunate enough to know. “ _I just love to see your snowshoes in front of the fire. It reminds me that you're home… I think security might've activated a surveillance device in our room… they were messing with the control panel outside when I came back… what did you do?_ ”

“Let me try.” Julian picks up the melody. “ _I just love to see your snowshoes in front of the fire. It reminds me that you're home… You're right, I can hear the device humming in the wall… but my tailor friend told them to leave me alone. Hopefully, they will deactivate the device tomorrow._ ”

“Good. But the tempo is more like this. _I just love to see your snowshoes in front of the fire. It reminds me that you're home… I have something important to tell you. I got lost after you were arrested, and I stumbled on your tailor friend's house. I can take you there tomorrow after work._ ”

“So, like this? _I just love to see your snowshoes in front of the fire. It reminds me that you're home… No, I'll go alone; I don't want you getting into trouble._ Well, I am confident I will have that song stuck in my head all day tomorrow. Shall we turn in?”

–

Julian takes his chances with the direct approach, walking out the front door of the dorm like he has every right to do so, leaving a gaggle of security officers gossiping in his wake. He spares a sigh of relief before working his way through the cracked and potted streets of the neighborhood. Again, walking with purpose keeps him safe, allowing him passage out of the ghetto and into one of the nicer, more suburban areas of the city just off of the imperial thoroughfare.

All the lawns are spacious, perfectly manicured, each with several basking rocks made of the most heat absorptive material.

The excess, in the face of so much poverty, is rather sickening.

Julian locates the address Alexander gave him and rings the door chime, knowing full well that his presence in this neighborhood could be considered a crime even without breaking and entering.

The door swishes open. “My dear doctor, what a _lovely_ surprise. Do come in.” Julian steps inside, into some kind of foyer with a closet and a long, winding hallway coming off of it. (Cardassian architecture deliberately places the most utilized areas of the home farthest from any exits or entrances; something about protecting the sanctity of the family as a unit of the State.) The door closes behind them and Garak whispers, “What do you think you're doing?”

“I'm trying to save my friends.”

Garak hushes him. “Keep your voice down.”

Julian pointedly does not. “Where are you keeping them? Squirreled away in some bunker? On Letau? Are they even on Cardassia?”

“If you do not lower your voice—”

“You'll what?”

A loud, whining sob comes from the corner of the room.

“Now, you've done it,” Garak murmurs.

Julian turns to find Patrick clad in Cardassian sportswear, hair combed, well-fed, unharmed, crying, blubbering, “You—you… you were…”

“Patrick,” Julian says, approaching the man, “it's all right. I'm here now.”

This just seems to make Patrick sob even louder.

“What are you whining about now?” Jack asks, coming through the hallway. He grimaces at Bashir. “Oh. It's you. You're not supposed to be here.” He hollers down into the hallway, “Lauren, your boyfriend is here!”

“Which one?” Lauren pokes her head into the hallway and is likewise dismayed by Julian's presence. “You're not supposed to be here.”

“That's what I said,” Jack says. “He's not supposed to be here.” He looks at Garak. “You weren't supposed to let him come. Now everything's ruined. I hope you're happy, Garak. Are you—are you happy? Huh? Are you? You've ruined everything.”

“It's not his fault,” Lauren says, stepping around Jack into the foyer. “Julian couldn't help playing his spy game, meddling into other people's business, _coming too soon_. That's not a trait I find attractive in a man.”

Jack giggles maniacally behind his fist. “She got you.”

Patrick sniffles, wiping a tear from his eye. “We were going to make you a cake.”

“What?” Julian says.

“A cake,” Jack says. “We were gonna make you a cake. What? Are you deaf and rude?”

“Rude? I'm here to—to—”

“We know why you're here,” Lauren says. “And while I'm extremely flattered that you still carry a torch for me after all these years, we don't need to be rescued.”

“We don't _want_ to be rescued,” Jack corrects.

“I didn't even get to send you your invitation,” Patrick sobs.

“My invitation?” Julian asks. “To what?”

“They were planning on throwing you a welcoming party when you first visited,” Garak says, coming out of the doorway. “But since you barged in here unannounced and uninvited, it appears the party is off.”

“Oh, damn.” Julian reaches out, laying a hand on Patrick's shoulder. “Patrick, I'm sorry for ruining your party. It was very inconsiderate of me. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.” He pulls Patrick into a hug, rubbing his back. “But we can still have the party. Right now.”

“But we don't have the cake or the balloons,” Patrick cries.

“Yeah,” Jack says. “We don't have the cake or the balloons, you idiot.”

“You're right,” Julian says. “We don't have the cake or the balloons. But we don't need them. Having them would be nice, but cake, balloons, decorations aren't what parties are about. The most important part of a party is the people. And we have all that. The four of us back together again like old times. It's going to be great.”

Patrick pulls away. “Okay.”

“Good. Why don't you three show me around?”

Lauren hooks an arm around Julian's waist. “You are going to love what we've done with the place.” She steers him down the long, sinuous hallway, Patrick following close behind, Garak from a distance, and Jack bopping along ahead of them. They pass a number of doors, each with a security detail posted out front, before entering the large, central family room.

Or what was a family room.

The traditional dining table has been gutted, along with the lounge area, the requisite basking rocks and heat leaps. The family tapestry is torn from the walls, replaced by maps and viewscreens, charts and whiteboards, several oil paintings of Jack in ridiculous costumes. Computer consoles and ergonomic chairs, holographic modeling tables, a trampoline, a divan, and a giant teddy bear litter the floor, all arranged in a regimented chaos.

“What is this place?” Julian asks, eyes wide and full of almost childlike wonder.

“This—” Lauren reclines on the divan. “—is where we work.”'

“This—” Patrick points. “—is my computer. And that over there is where we make three-dimensional renderings of our plans and even run simulations. See.” 

Patrick presses a button on the holographic modeling table and a rendering of what appears to be green mud flickers to life. Slowly, the mud transitions from green to deep, rich brown, eventually stabilizing into fertile soil growing Cardassian knot grass and fragrant haba trees. Deep into the recesses of the hologram, a small factory appears, taking water from an aquifer underneath the wooded area and pumping it into the city. The sun shines bright on simulated Cardassia.

“That's amazing,” Julian says. “How did you do that?”

“Wouldn't you like to know,” Jack snaps.

“Yes. I—well, actually, I would.”

“Well, fine.” Jack goes into a longwinded, rapid fire explanation of the model, using every computer, chart, map, viewscreen, and (briefly) his own self-portrait to illustrate how they plan to use Hebitian algae to clean up the toxic sludge left by the Dominion's bombardment. “In three weeks— _three weeks_ —we can have that land safe for public use and—and eventually for water reclamation. Pretty neat, huh? Bet you wish you would've thought of it.”

“I wish I had,” Julian laughs. “Is this—is this all you've been working on? Purifying the water table? That's it?”

“Having clean water is not a petty concern on Cardassia,” Garak says.

“I know. I'm digging a bloody well in the middle of Tocat for god's sakes. I just thought you'd be having them working on something a bit more nefarious. Like biogenic weapons or universal surveillance technology or shock collars that punish citizens for doublethink.”

“We wanted to work on that,” Lauren says, “but Garak wouldn't give us the security clearance.”

“You see,” Garak starts, “the Cardassian government has the foresight not to give untrained civilians of undetermined allegiance unfettered access to our most sensitive intelligence documents.”

“Who knows what they could do with that kind of information,” Jack says, nodding furiously. “They could surrender to the Dominion.”

“Somehow,” Julian says, “I think you're implying that that whole fiasco was my fault.”

“Not entirely,” Lauren says. “But who gives Starfleet's crucial intelligence reports about an ongoing war to a bunch of mutant anarchists.”

Patrick nods. “It was maybe a little your fault.”

“Oh, come on,” Julian gasps, smiling widely all the while. “You know, Garak, I don't think I like what you've done to them.”

“Honey,” Lauren purrs, “you should see what we've done to him.” She winks.

–

After dinner, Julian is physically pushed out of the house so Jack and Lauren and Patrick can allegedly work on their holographic model, but Julian will be damned if he doesn't come back inside to find a five tiered cake waiting for him. He humors them, genuinely sorry about ruining the surprise they worked so hard on (the disappointed looks on their faces was like a huge flashback to the time when Jadzia roped him into throwing Odo a surprise “discovery outside the wormhole” anniversary party, which Odo of course found out about weeks in advance and ended up hiding inside someone's shoe to avoid). He calculates roughly how long a cake needs to bake and decides to curl up on a rock for a nap.

Unfortunately, Garak has taken the only one large enough to accommodate Bashir. 

Hearing Bashir's approach, Garak's eyes open, showing a glimmer of his secondary eyelid. “Doctor.”

“Garak.” Julian sits cross-legged in the grass next to the rock. “Enjoying the sunset?”

“As much as any Cardassian can enjoy the retreat of the sun. It seems sunset is the only time I can get out of the office to take in any sun.”

“You should still keep taking your supplements then. Improper sun exposure can wreak havoc on the Cardassian immune system, not to mention the production of certain neurotransmitters.”

“I'm well aware.”

“You know.” Julian licks his lips. “You might have done a genuinely good thing for them by bringing them here… What I can't figure out is why you did it.”

“I told you, doctor. All of our best people are dead. And since the Federation doesn't see fit to take advantage of an incredible untapped resource because of one minor, isolated incident—”

“They tried to hand the alpha quadrant to the Dominion!”

“—I decided to use what they won't for the good of Cardassia.”

“So, you're outsourcing?”

“Exactly.”

“And the government is okay with this? Having humans on the payroll?”

“Cardassia has found it easy to give up their species chauvinism when there isn't enough clean water to drink.”

“Tell that to Kiltar,” Julian mumbles.

“Who?”

“No one.” Julian rests his chin on a flat corner of the rock slab. “You know, you could've just told me why I needed to wait.”

“And you would've believed me? 'Oh, I'm sorry, Dr. Bashir, but I can't take you to see my alleged hostages until Patrick picks out the perfect buttercream recipe. You understand.'”

“Buttercream?” Julian's eyes light up. “Is the cake really going to have buttercream frosting?”

“If their numerous trial runs are to be believed.”

“That's brilliant. I love buttercream. Though I suppose they know that.”

“They know… an alarming amount. Still—” Garak stretches on the rock slab. “—you have them quite nervous about what you'll tell Dr. Loews and Starfleet. Apparently, that is the one thing they can't predict.”

“Right now, neither can I. But… if I find that they can have a home here—a real home, where they're safe and a part of society… then I could not in good conscience return them to the institute.”

“You care for them.”

“I'm a doctor; I believe the least restrictive environment is always best for my patients.”

“You care for them.”

Julian stares off into the Cardassian sunset. “More than I should.”

“They have that effect, don't they?”


	9. Better than Just You, Better than Just Me

Ezri rests her chin on the cold, stony edge of the pool, watching the symbiont swim in its milky waters, jumping to the surface and diving back down, sending out electrical impulses with no one there to receive them. “I can't believe how big it's gotten,” Ezri murmurs.

“Neither can I,” Lenara says, leaning her side against the pool. “From what I've been told, it can take years—even decades—for symbionts to grow this large. To see one mature so far in only a month is unprecedented.”

“Maybe the holodeck is able to synthesize a more nurturing environment.”

“Maybe. As far as I can tell, the program isn't plagued by the same nutrient fluctuations as the symbiont's natural environment—even with the Guardians tending to the pools.”

“Or it could just be fat.”

Lenara chortles. “Could be.” She glides her finger over the surface of the water. “Although I think it's far more—” The symbiont sends out a current and she yips, pulling her hand away.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” She rubs her belly. “It felt like—what's the human expression?—lepidopterans in my tummy?”

“Butterflies in your stomach?”

“Yes. A little fluttering.” She lays her hand on the spot where Kahn is joined. “Right here.” She ducks her head, hiding a half-smile. “The same feeling I get when I look at you.”

Ezri reaches over, covering the hand on Kahn with her own. “Me too.”

“I've never felt that before I—”

“Ladies,” Vic calls, stepping down from the stage. Ezri pulls her hand away. “It's good to see you two in here. This might sound a little crazy, but I think the little worm is feeling lonely. Maybe you oughta think about getting it some company.”

“That's phase two of our plan,” Ezri says, getting up from the floor.

“What's phase one?”

“Uh…”

“You might want to work on that.”

–

Ezri folds her hands in her lap, smiling benignly at her afternoon appointment. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

Jake sits silently, slumped down in his chair, more the picture of the sullen teenager Jadzia saw on occasion than the self-assured young man Ezri knows. Kasidy speaks up for him. “There has been some… tension between us lately. We've both been reluctant to discuss the problem.”

“Well, it's good you came to me,” Ezri says. “Tension within the family can be hard to address, usually because people are afraid of hurting their loved ones' feelings. But here we can talk about it openly in a safe, neutral environment. Now, Kasidy, when would you say the tension started?”

“Uh, about a month and a half ago. Right around the time Julian left for Cardassia.”

“And do you think this has anything to do with Julian leaving?”

“No, if anything, it has to do with me spending more time with the Bajoran women on the station.”

Jake sighs. “It's not that you're spending time with them. I don't mind if you spend time with them. I just… why do they have to bring food over all the time? They're acting like my dad is dead or something. He's not dead; he's coming back.”

“They're just trying to be nice, Jake,” Kasidy says.

“They can be nice without bringing over casseroles like we're in mourning or something.”

“But aren't you in mourning?” Ezri asks. “Your dad may not be dead, but he's still not here.”

“I don't know.”

“Kasidy, what do you think about this?”

“Honestly,” Kasidy starts, “I think Jake is acting incredibly selfish right now. The people bringing food for us know what it is like to go hungry. For years, many of them went from one day to the next not knowing when their next meal would be. The only thing that got them through that time was faith, the belief that the Emissary, _your father_ , would be coming.”

“And you think the Bajorans are trying to help you get through this time?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Look,” Jake says, “I know they're trying to make things easier for you—for both of us—but sometimes I have to wonder whether they're doing this because they care about us—Jake and Kasidy—as people, or just as the Emissary's family. And, honestly, I'm a little sick of being the Emissary's son.”

“How so?” Ezri asks.

“I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I'm not allowed to be sad or angry that my dad is gone, like people expect me to be some big religious figure who can handle all this stuff. But I'm not. I'm just a regular guy.”

Kasidy barks out a laugh, hand holding her pregnant belly as she dissolves into chuckles.

“What? It's not funny.”

“I know, I know.” Kasidy wipes a tear from her eye, still giggling. “I felt the same way. I thought I had to be this strong, stoic woman like Ruth or Naomi. I thought that's what the Bajorans wanted me to be. But then they started bringing me dinner and trashy holo-novels and aroma therapy candles and mani-pedis.”

Jake joins in the laughter, clearly relieved at someone understanding his pain. “What's a mani-pedi?”

Ezri commbadge chirps. “Dax here. I'm in the middle of a session.”

“Cancel it,” Kira says on the other end. “You're gonna want to see this.”

–

Once out of the sound-proofed confines of her office, Ezri hears the dull roar of chatter beneath her, coming from all sides of the lower level of the Promenade. She wonders briefly if there's another Bajoran festival she forgot about (the festival of… verisimilitude, maybe? That's a thing, right?), but her first look over the balcony reveals not Bajorans filling the Promenade but Trill. Hundreds of Trill. Of all ages and genders congregated in groups of twenty or less arguing, debating, looking over their shoulders expectantly as if waiting for something or someone to appear.

Then it does.

Or rather _Ezri_ does.

A man in the center of the crowd—whom Ezri has never seen before in any of her lives—points up to the spot where she's standing and yells, “It's Dax!”

And suddenly the eyes of hundreds of Trill are on her. Ezri's entire body stiffens, frozen with shock and fear, all except for her right hand which gives a wave that’s awkward even by Tobin standards.

With the crowd silent, expectant, _waiting for her to say something_ , Ezri can hear the footsteps behind her and Lenara's muttered Trill invective as she joins her at the banister. “I am going to kill my brother,” Lenara says, smiling and waving at the crowd below.

“Bejal?” Ezri asks. “He did this? How?”

“From what I gathered between his pleas for forgiveness, Bejal told a few of his friends at the expatriate colony on Andor that you and I were considering—”

“Oh, no.” Ezri grabs her stomach, reeling in spacesickness over the anticipation of where this most definitely is going.

“—leading a political uprising. Those friends told some of their friends who told some of their friends and now—” 

“Everyone knows.”

“Or, at least, the entire Trill diaspora.”

“So, they decided to come here? Now?”

“Apparently, someone chartered a transport vessel to gather Trill in exile across the quadrant.”

“What do we do?”

Lenara stares down at the throngs of people below, taking a deep breath. “Whatever we think Kira would do.”

“Right. Okay.” Ezri takes Lenara's hand in her own, squeezing tightly. “Think Kira. Think Kira… we should probably go down there and not run away as quickly as possible.”

Lenara squeezes her hand back. “That sounds like a plan.”

They take off hand-in-hand to the spiral staircase, descending it to the main floor of the Promenade, where they are immediately mobbed by four Trill whose features indicate membership in four different ethic groups from four different areas of the homeworld that splintered off into the four major cultures of the diaspora: Rylanit, Gheryzanit, Manevan, and Kem'altan

One of them—a middle-aged Rylanit woman—thrusts her hand forward. “Jihima Kif, Rylanitian Committee for Social Change, honored to meet you.”

Before Ezri can shake her hand, three other hands are there waiting, belonging to: “Athia Trune, Manevans for Equality, so glad to finally meet you,” “Xiran Hanses, Kem'altan'ai Freedom Party, here to serve,” and “Yla Stro, Gheryzanita Center for Justice.”

Lenara and Ezri scramble to get to each outstretched hand, greeting each with a muttered, “Ezri Dax, Deep Space Nine Council of [indecipherable mumbling]” or “Lenara Kahn, good to pleased to meet you.”

“We spoke on the transport here,” Yla says, “and agreed that Deep Space Nine would be the perfect place to consolidate our power.”

“That is…” Ezri starts, “ _exactly_ what we were thinking.”

“Great!” Athia clasps her hands together. “My constituents will be pleased to hear it.”

Ezri waits for her to leave, before realizing… “Oh, you want me to tell them. Okay.” Ezri backs up a few steps on the staircase and coughs, before projecting, “Hello. Hi. If we could…” The Promenade hushes. “Great. Hello. I'm Ezri Dax. Welcome to Deep Space Nine.” A whir of applause. “I've conferred with a few of your representatives and we've agreed that DS9 would be the perfect base of operations where we can, uh, where we can… Sorry. I don't really have a statement prepared. I didn't even know you were all coming until I stepped out of my office five minutes ago. It kind of threw me. I mean, one minute I'm doing family counseling and the next I'm staring down at hundreds of Trill, wondering, 'What are these people doing here?' Which I guess is the question of the hour. I mean, what are we all doing here? Why are we here? What do we hope to accomplish here?

“I don't know about all of you, but my partner and I—we're here because, after several lifetimes, we've finally had enough. We've had enough of limiting who we love based on the fear of exile and the death of our symbionts. We've had enough of arbitrary and prejudiced rules deciding who has 'earned' being joined, as if symbionts were trophies rather than sentient beings. We've had enough of the Federation sitting by and doing nothing while our homeworld gets away with horrific, systemic discrimination that would be the cause for sanctions on any other planet. When it comes down to it, we've had enough of the Symbiosis Commission. And we think we can do a lot better without them.”

“How?” a lone voice shouts from the crowd.

“What?”

“How can we do without the Symbiosis Commission?” The woman, a Manevan if Ezri isn't mistaken, steps forward. “We don't have a reserve of symbionts. We don't have Guardians to raise them if we did. As far as I can tell, all we do have is a lot of talk.”

“We have a lot more than just talk. I can guarantee you that.”

“Then what do we have?”

“I can't say.”

“Then I can't stay.”

Apparently spellbound by the accidental rhyme, the crowd begins to chant, “You can't say, we can't stay. You can't say, we can't stay.”

Ezri is losing them quickly, their need for definitive proof of the revolution's viability battling with Ezri's need for not publicly revealing a secret that could get her and Lenara carted off to the fifth moon of Trill Prime for the rest of their lives.

“Listen,” Lenara yells, voice cutting through the Promenade. “You can't expect us to reveal every detail of our plan in public to people we barely know. Any one of you could be an informant for the Symbiosis Commission. We understand that you can't trust us on our word alone; we can't trust you on yours either. We need time before some of the more sensitive details of our plans can be shared with all of you. In the mean time, I think we have enough people now to properly establish a donor registry. If you are joined and would like to will your symbiont to a member of the resistance in the event of your death, line up on the left wall and Jihima Kif and Xiran Hanses will take down your information. If you would like to be joined with a willed symbiont, line up on the right wall and give your information to Athia Trune and Yla Stros.

“If you've decided already that you haven't a shred of confidence in what we're doing here, then you are invited to leave.”

The crowd soon divides into four more or less equal parts: those standing around chatting, those heading to the donor line, those heading to the recipient line, and those heading to the ticket agent to book passage for transport home. A quarter is more people than they can afford to lose… even if those people are behaving entirely unreasonably right now.

“Hey!” Ezri shouts. “Hey! Yes, uh, thank you. Thanks. Um… I know you don't have a lot of reasons to believe in what Lenara and I are trying to do here. We're not revolutionaries; we don't have any experience in toppling over governments. We have no guarantee that this will work, that you folks aren't just getting your hopes up for nothing. I understand that. But if you can't believe in us, at least believe in Deep Space Nine.

“This isn't just a space station. These walls have seen the victory of Bajorans over the Cardassian occupation, the discovery of the universe's only known stable wormhole, the unlocking of the celestial temple, the rise of a strong, independent Bajor… In Quark's bar, a nobody who no one believed in became the Grand Nagus of Ferenginar. Upstairs, in that conference room, the glory-seeking head of the Klingon Empire was deposed and replaced by a general half-blinded by the Dominion, born to a common family. I fell in love here, I got married here, I _died_ here. But I came back and I fell in love again, because DS9 is about rebirth and second chances and people that everyone has forgotten about finally getting a place where they can be the people they were meant to be.

“This is a special place that will change your life and the lives of all Trill. All you have to do is stay. Which, believe me, I know is one of the hardest decisions a person can ever make, but you will be rewarded in ways you can't even imagine. So, I'm asking you, please give DS9 a chance. You won't regret it.”

The tide of people flowing to the ticket counter stems, trickling down to just three or four disgruntled Trill as the rest join the donation and recipient lines. Ezri breaths a sigh of relief.

“Great speech,” Kira says, coming down the stairwell, “but where are we gonna put all these people?”

–

Lenara steps over a snoring Bejal and his tossing-and-turning wife, tip-toeing around her nieces and nephews giggling in the dark, before settling down on the pallet where Ezri lies awake.

“On the bright side,” Ezri whispers, resting her head on Lenara's chest, “your family seems to accept our relationship now.” Above, on Ezri's bed, Lenara's mother starts talking in her sleep. “Of course, on the downside, they're all living in my bedroom until Kira can free up enough quarters.”

“And then,” Lenara whispers, “at best, my family will move out of your bedroom and into your living room once those Rylanit find somewhere else to stay.”

“Hey, I'll just be glad to have a clear path to the bathroom in the middle of the night.”

“Even if you have to share it with eight other people?”

“I'm used to it. Tobin had twelve siblings and his parents were very much into that family bed thing, so this isn't that bad.” Lenara's father lets off a particularly ripe and percussive bit of flatulence. “On second thought…” Ezri and Lenara duck under the covers to avoid the smell. Ezri rolls her eyes. “The glamour of being a revolutionary.”


	10. Time to Take a Little from the World We're Given

With no volunteers working in the capital city (Kiltar was right about one thing) and very few going to the sparsely populated central timezone of the northern continent, Julian and Alexander have rarely had any trouble finding a table to themselves during their shift's breakfast. A week after his reunion with Jack and the other mutants, Julian is hard-pressed to find seats for himself and Alexander, let alone their own table. The mess hall is crowded with volunteers Julian hasn't seen since their first day.

“Excuse me.” He taps an Ardanan man on the shoulder. “Are those seats taken?”

The Ardanan shakes his head. “No. Go right ahead.”

“Thanks.” Julian takes a seat, waving Alexander over to the table.

Alexander, to his credit, doesn't drop the two trays he filled at the service line. Julian supposes adolescent clumsiness disappears out of necessity when one's professional duties include handing Klingon infants over to their stressed, exhausted, and mercurial mothers. 

“Here.” Alexander puts Julian's tray down in front of him before sitting down with his own. 

“I've never seen the mess hall so crowded,” Julian says, tucking into his meal. “I was lucky to find a place for us to sit.”

“I wonder what all these people are doing here.”

“If they're anything like me,” the Ardanan says, not looking up from his PADD, “they're trying to enjoy the day off without going out into that forsaken heat.”

“Day off? Your shift's getting an extra day off?” Julian asks. “That doesn't seem very fair.”

“Don't worry.” The Ardanan slides the PADD over the table to Julian. “You'll be getting a day off as well.”

Julian's eyes flick over the PADD—a corps-wide message about the day's shifts being cancelled due to… “The transporters are down? All of them?”

“Apparently.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“I know as much as you do, now… But there are rumors, if those can be believed, that a volunteer tried to tamper with the transporters to beam to a location other than their assignment.”

“But that's impossible,” Alexander says. “The transporters here are standard Cardassian, low energy, fixed location transporters. They don't have enough computing power to beam to locations that aren't hard-wired into the homing circuits. Even I know that.”

The Ardanan shrugs. “The tamperer's mistake is my day off. I haven't reason to complain.”

“Neither do we,” Julian says. “Alexander, after breakfast, how do you feel about visiting a few old friends of mine?”

–

A few hours into his workday, Garak gets a comm at his office. “Your _dear doctor_ is planning on dropping by the house in an hour,” Lauren says. “I thought you'd like to know.” There's condescension in her voice, presumption about Garak's intentions that he would very much like to prove false, reasserting his authority over her as her boss and benefactor, but Garak is as much a slave to his emotions as he is a servant to the state. He swears that time in exile being denied all the small pleasures of citizenship did nothing for his self-discipline. If anything, he's worse now than he was before.

As soon as Lauren's face fades from his viewscreen, Garak is out of his desk chair, down the corridor, and telling the department secretary that he'll be taking a long lunch with his outworlder consultants, hold his comms.

Lauren opens the front door for him, saying nothing but speaking volumes with her smirk and cocked hips.

“Not a word,” Garak hisses, brushing past her into the house.

“Of course.” She swings the door shut. “As far as Julian is concerned, you've been here all day.”

“Exactly.” He sniffs at her. “Don't you have work to be doing?”

“Whatever you say, boss.” She heads down the hallway, swaying her hips.

Garak sighs, once again questioning why he brought these people here. True, they've turned out to be just as good for Cardassia as Cardassia is for them, but managing them has been reminiscent of that inferno of Dante's. Garak is, as anyone would tell, a man of secrets. For him, security is being seen but never truly known. To surround himself with three people who can know him completely with a single glance is either a sign of tremendous personal growth or profound self-destructive impulses. Ever a cynic (especially when it comes to himself), Garak bets on the latter.

He debates going back to their workspace and upbraiding them for something—he hasn't figured out what—but then they'd give him that look that sees right through him and he doesn't need that kind of exposure with Bashir on the way. Garak is emotionally vulnerable enough around him as it is.

As disgusting as that is.

Garak keeps to the foyer, reading through foreign aid reports on the PADD kept tucked in his jacket pocket. He strategically places himself near the door but out of view form any of the windows, so that he can be first to the door to greet Bashir without being seen from outside waiting for him. Garak wonders when his motions around Bashir became so rehearsed. Wasn't there a time when Bashir was the one person he could be closest to himself around? Now, in some odd switch of fate, he's laid bare in front of his subordinates, pawns he brought here to manipulate, and wrapped in pretense around the man he summoned with the intent of fostering emotional transparency.

The best laid plans of tailors and spies often go awry.

The door chimes and Garak rolls his eyes at his own anticipation.

He keys the door open. “Dr. Bashir, Mr. Rozhenko, how lovely of you to visit.” To be honest, Garak could do without the Klingon. “Come in, come in.” He corrals them inside. “I'm sure the heat has not been kind to your mammalian hides.”

Sweat pools in Julian's clavicle. “Honestly, Garak, I don't know how you survived on DS9 if this is your ideal climate.”

“Layers, warm fabrics…” No one to warm his bed at night. “And someone was careless enough to leave a medical grade personal climate control device in the shop several years back. I would've returned it to its rightful owner, but I could never figure out who lost it.”

Julian grins. “And I doubt you ever will.”

Alexander looks around the foyer. “Where is everyone?”

“Oh, how rude of me,” Garak says. “Right this way.” He leads them down the hall. “They'll be quite pleased to meet you, Alexander. Or, at least, Patrick and Lauren will. Don't mind Jack. He has that dreadful human tendency for—”

They round the corner into the workroom, where Jack immediately jumps in front of Alexander, grabbing hold of him by the shoulders. “A Klingon!” Jack looks back at Lauren and Patrick. “Garak brought us a Klingon.”

Patrick toddles over, tilting his head as he visually examines Alexander. “I've never seen a Klingon in person before.”

“Actually…” Alexander squirms in Jack's hold. “I'm a quarter human.”

“I know that! You think I don't know that?” Jack shakes him. “Look at his forehead, his teeth, his hair…”

Lauren slides off her divan. “His arms, his chest, his dimples…” She smiles at Garak. “You brought us a prime specimen.”

“He's not a specimen,” Julian admonishes, pushing Jack away. “He's my friend.”

“Oh,” Patrick says. “Well, any friend of Julian's is a friend of ours.”

“We could be more than friends,” Lauren leers.

Alexander blushes, staring down at his shoes. “Okay.”

“Perfect. I've always wondered what Klingons are like in—”

An alarm sounds and Garak's foreign consultants scatter across the room—Patrick to his computer console, Jack to the holographic modeling table, Lauren to a map of K'dis on the wall.

“Report from CR rep in the field.” Patrick reads, “ _Eleven firm on resource level four._ ”

“Eleven?” Jack snaps. “No, no. We were supposed to have twelve. They told us twelve. We planned for twelve. We have to reconfigure the whole—”

“What happened to the twelfth?” Lauren asks.

Patrick scans the console screen. “Naban Adob tested into primary school next term.”

“Good for her.”

“Yes, yes.” Jack bites his thumbnail. “Good for her. Good for her. Bad for us. Bad for her mother who will have to leave work to pick her up from school and drop her off at daycare because everyone else in her family died in Lakarian City.” Jack shakes his head, flipping through interfaces on the holographic modeling array. “This will lower plant productivity by at least point-zero-zero-six-four percent. _At least._ ”

“What about an after school program?” Patrick asks.

“Like the one at Capitol Day School?” Lauren asks. “That might work. Who do we have open for those hours?”

Jack rattles off a few names off the top of his head.

Julian leans over to Garak, watching them all the while. “What are they doing?”

“Logistics for the water sanitation plant,” Garak whispers back. “Employment, childcare, other local concerns…”

“Really?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am. They seem to be taking it so seriously. The Jack I knew would've thought childcare was a petty concern of normal people, not something he should devote his time to.”

“I imagine the petty concerns of normal people don't seem so petty when you're allowed to have them.”

–

Garak has to drag Jack, Lauren, and Patrick away from their machines and their work for lunch—not so much for their benefit, but out of what Julian understands as a deep, abiding commitment within Garak to proper etiquette. (At least on the surface.) The head of a Cardassian household (which is what Garak seems to be here) can't very well feed himself without providing for the rest of the family and their guests.

Like a good host, Garak provides them all with replicated tiabos—a kind of Cardassian street food that can be eaten one-handed like a sandwich—which they eat in the workroom. (Taking midmeal too far away from one's work is seen by Cardassians as a failing in commitment to the State.) Lauren lounges idly on her divan while Jack takes bites of his tiabo between jumps on the trampoline, expending that limitless energy supply of his. Patrick follows behind Julian as he looks around the room, pausing to eat at the same time Julian does.

“Is this yours?” Julian asks, stopping next to the giant teddy bear in the corner.

Patrick nods. “I like to sit on her lap and wrap her arms around me. It helps me think.”

“Really? Would you mind if I…? Could I try her out?”

“Sure.”

Julian passes his tiabo to Patrick and settles down into the teddy bear's embrace. “ _My god_. This is incredible.” He rests his head on the bear's softy, fluffy shoulder. “I may never leave.”

Patrick smiles triumphantly, crossing over to Jack's trampoline. “See.” He pokes Jack in the chest. “It's not stupid.”

Jack slaps his hand away. “You're too old to have a teddy bear; that's why you weren't allowed to have one at the institute. Grown men aren't supposed to have teddy bears; it's infantile.”

“Hey!” Julian shouts. “Grown men having teddy bears is completely normal and, in fact, is very healthy. I'd even say it's a sign of maturity and reverence for the sanctity of childhood.”

Garak smirks. “Ah, says the man who sleeps with a teddy bear.”

“I do not—I do not sleep with a teddy bear. I merely keep him in my room near my bed.”

“You have a teddy?” Patrick asks.

“Yes. I do. His name is Kukalaka. I've had him since birth.”

Patrick pulls on the front of his shirt. “Maybe you could bring Kukalaka here some time.”

“I would. But I left him on Deep Space Nine.”

“I thought you brought him with you wherever you go,” Garak says.

“I do. But I…” Julian wraps the arms of Patrick's teddy tightly around himself. “I thought Cardassia might be too dangerous for him.”

Garak barks out a laugh. “Well, I can assure you, doctor, no harm will come to any teddy bears under my protection.”

“Ah…” Julian leans forward, letting the teddy's arms fall to the ground. “So that's the kind of benefits I was missing when I was friends with a mere tailor. It's good to see you putting your regained power to good use, Gul Garak.”

Garak bows his head. “I am, as ever, a servant to Cardassia.”

“And the stuffed animals within her orbit.”

“Of course. Anything less would be a betrayal of the State.”

“Of course.” Julian stands up from the teddy chair, stretching his arms over his head. “It's in the State's best interest to keep an eye on their mutants' teddy bears. You could hardly get that water sanitation plant in order without them.” He claps Patrick on the shoulder, taking back his tiabo. “Honestly, I think I would have found the cure for the Changeling virus on my own if I had a giant Kukalaka in sickbay.”

“Or if you would've modified the transverse webbing of the morphogenic matrix by thirteen degrees,” Patrick says.

“No, that wouldn't have worked because it…” Julian's brow furrows. “Actually, that might have worked. How did you—?”

Jack snorts. “Please. We've had that figured out for years.”

Patrick wrings his hands. “After we met your chief of security at Deep Space Nine, we realized that Starfleet had access to a live Changeling that they could use to win the war.”

“That was why they rejected our proposal.”

“No,” Julian says. “They rejected our proposal because… _Section 31 had an ace in the hole._ Damn!”

“So much for the unyielding, fighting spirit of the Federation,” Garak says.

“If—if you knew about the virus, if you had a cure, why didn't you tell me?”

Jack jumps off the trampoline. “You're Dr. Julian Bashir. _Starfleet._ Lieutenant Julian Bashir, Starfleet's token mutant. We wondered—we wondered, all of us, how you became the exception to that rule. What you did to stay.”

“You thought I had something to do with creating the virus?”

“No. Not—not creating the virus. Even you're not that good. You can create a cure that can save a species, but craft the virus that will kill them? No, you don't have the stomach for it. But—but if someone told you to inject a patient with an unlabeled hypospray hush-hush wink-wink no questions asked and all the repercussions for being outed as a mutant would go away? Twenty-eight percent probability.”

“ _Twenty-eight?_ Is that really what you think of me?”

“You're Starfleet. We were giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

“I can't believe that. Patrick, did you honestly think—”

Patrick scuttles across the room, hiding behind Garak.

“I'll take that as a yes. And, Lauren, did you—” The divan is empty. “Where's Lauren?”

“I don't know,” Garak says. “She and Alexander left while you were lecturing us about the merits of owning a teddy bear.”

“She _and Alexander_? They left together?”

“Yes. I believe that's what I just said.”

“Where did they go?”

“Down the hall. Don't worry; security wouldn't let them leave alone.”

“I'm not worried about them leaving alone. I'm worried about them _being alone._ ” Julian takes off down the hall with Garak following close behind. “Is this her room?”

“Yes.”

Julian tries the handle. The door won't budge. “You let them have locks? I can't believe you gave them locked doors.”

“I find them just as distasteful as you do, but human custom demands. You should've seen the look on the contractor's face when I asked him to install locks in a family home. It's one thing to have a lock on the head of the household's room, but on every bedroom door? That kind of secrecy does not belong in a Cardassian home.”

“It doesn't belong in a house with Lauren in it either. She and Alexander could be doing god knows what in there!”

“Whatever they are doing, I'm certain no deity in creation would want to know about it.”

“And you're okay with that?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“Because you know how she is!”

“If you're worried about her falling pregnant, she had a total hysterectomy as an adolescent. Apparently, your Federation doctors thought it would 'fix' her.”

“Obviously, it didn't work. And that's why you can't be encouraging her to act out her symptoms like this. If she wants to be a normal, functioning member of society, then she needs to control her impulses. Just like Patrick needs to become less sensitive and childish and Jack needs to manage his aggression.”

“Doctor, you are aware that many 'normal, functioning members of society' have sex drives? And I know at least one functioning member of society who loves his teddy bear. And one who could stand to manage his aggression right now.”

“I'm not like Jack. I'm not trying to hurt Lauren; I'm trying to help her.”

“And you're so certain you know how to do that.”

“Yes! I'm a doctor! I have a degree in how to help people—”

The door opens. Lauren and Alexander emerge clothes rumpled and smiles on their faces that melt under Julian's glare.

“Don't worry, doctor,” Lauren says. “I was very gentle with him.”

Alexander looks like he wants to be swallowed up by the floor.

“Come on.” Julian grabs his arm. “We're leaving.”

–

“I can't believe you would take advantage of her like that,” Julian snaps, power-walking aggressively through the city center.

Alexander struggles to keep up, his general ungainliness making it hard for him to dodge passersby. “I didn't. I wouldn't.”

“So, you didn't have sex with her?”

“No. I mean, yes… We had…” Alexander lowers his voice, conscious of the people around them. “…sex. But she wanted to do it. I asked.”

“ _You approached her?_ ”

“No! She asked me to go back to her room and then she told me I was strong and handsome and had kind eyes and then she climbed on top of me and I asked if she was sure and she said yes so we… did it.”

Julian sighs, gathering himself. “I can understand how that would confuse you; Lauren's certainly misled men like that before. Just promise you won't have sex with her again no matter what she says.”

“I promise… but, what if we got married?”

“Married? Lauren?” Julian laughs. “That's a good one.”

Three weeks later, Julian finds out Alexander was being all too serious.

In the middle of the night, Julian is woken from sleep by the sounds of sobs barely muffled to his genetically enhanced hearing by a pillow.

“Alexander,” Julian croaks, voice rough from sleep. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Alexander says, through a veil of tears and mucous.

Julian climbs out of bed, standing with his forearm leaning on the metal bar encasing the top bunk. “What's wrong?”

Alexander burrows his head under the covers. “Nothing.”

“Okay. I'm here to talk if you want.” He waits a second before kneeling down to get back into bed.

From under the covers, Alexander chokes, “Why won't she call me?”

Julian gets back upright. “Who?”

“L-lauren. She said she would.”

“Lauren says a lot of things.” Julian rests his chin on top on the top bunk's metal bar. “That's just Lauren being Lauren; it doesn't have anything to do with you. Try not to take it to heart.”

“I feel so stupid.”

“I know. This probably isn't any consolation, but you weren't the first.”

Julian's right; that wasn't any consolation, as indicated by Alexander's weeping and hyperventilating. “But _she_ was the first.”

“She was…? Lauren was the first person you ever…?”

Alexander's head bobs up and down underneath the covers, nodding a yes.

“Oh, kid.” Julian rubs Alexander's back through the mounds of covers. “I didn't know.”

Eyes peer out from under the covers. “She told me she liked me.”

“She does. In her own way.”

“Then why won't she answer any of my comms?”

“Because…” He sighs. “Lauren doesn't want the same things out of your relationship as you do. You want to get married, right?”

“Yeah. I wouldn't have slept with her if I didn't think…”

“Right, because that's how you were raised. That's what your father taught you… even if he seldom followed his own teachings. But Lauren… Lauren doesn't want to get married. Marriage has never even been a possibility for Lauren until quite recently.”

“But now that it is, do you think she'll—”

Julian squeezes his shoulder. “I wouldn't get my hopes up.”

Alexander rolls over onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. “I don't know what I'm going to tell my father.”

“You don't have to tell him anything. As far as my father knows, I took an oath of celibacy at puberty.”

“But this isn't as big of a deal for humans. For Klingons… Men are supposed to retain their honor for their intended.”

“What about the women?”

“Women gain honor when they have sex before marriage.”

“By taking it from the men?”

“No… it's not latinum. There's not a finite amount of honor.”

“It just comes out of the ether?”

“Yeah.”

“Whenever a woman has sex out of wedlock?”

“Yeah.”

“So, theoretically, two unmarried Klingon women could win tremendous honor just by having sex with each other?”

“It's been known to happen.”

“ _My god._ The rates of temporomandibular joint dysfunction amongst Klingon women make so much more sense now.”

“I guess Lauren has a lot of honor.”

“Maybe in Klingon culture, but I don't think there's anything honorable about the way she treated you.”

“You're not going to talk to her about this, are you?”

“No, of course not. This stays between us.”

-

“I can't believe you would take advantage of him like that,” Julian snaps as soon as Lauren opens the front door.

“Hello to you, too, doctor.” She steps back, allowing Julian inside the foyer, and swings the door shut. “Haven't seen you around here in weeks.”

“I was busy. And, quite frankly, I was too angry to come over here. For weeks, I was so mad at Garak for _letting_ you have sex, as if he or anyone else had any control over what you'd do. Really, I should have been mad at you.”

“All this hostility toward a woman exercising her sex drive. It's very 21st century.”

“I'm not angry with you for having sex. You can have as much bloody sex as you want for all I care!”

“I'm touched to finally have your permission.”

“I'm angry at you because you hurt someone I care about. Someone I consider to be family.”

“Alexander.”

“Yes, Alexander. He may be a man by Klingon standards, but he's only been alive for nine Earth years. He doesn't know the first thing about love or sex or dating, and you took advantage of his naïveté so you could get a leg over. You had him believing that you two were going to get married. He thought you were going to be his wife. And then you refused to talk to him. What do you think that did to him?”

“That's not my problem, Julian.”

“It is your problem. If you want to have sex, you have to deal with the consequences. And you're lucky that this time the only consequence you have to face is me lecturing you. It could be worse. It could be— Do you know how much emphasis is put on Klingon male virginity? Do you know what would happen if Alexander told the mistress of his house that you cheated him out of his honor? You'd be lucky to have teeth left in your skull by the time Sirella was done with you.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No! I'm not…” Julian sighs, leaning up against the front door. “I would never let anyone hurt you, okay? But I can't stand by and watch you hurt other people. I know that this is at least partially my fault. I'm part of a long line of doctors and specialists who thought the best way we could help you was to condition you to not have sex when what we should have done is teach you to have sex in a way that is safe, consensual, and beneficial to you and your partners.”

“In other words,” Lauren says, “you were more concerned about making me appear normal than actually helping me.”

Julian examines a pattern in the foyer's wood floors. “Yes.”

“Congratulations. You're the first doctor to ever admit that.”

“Well.” Julian forces a smile. “I was second in my class at Starfleet medical.”

Lauren leans against the door, pressing her shoulder against Julian's. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine. You're in a city with six million other people, and I've never seen you so lonely.”

“I'm not used to… Over the past seven years, I grew accustomed to having these people—not all of them friends, but still—at my side just constantly. But at the end of the war, they scattered and now I—”

“Feel like a piece of you has been torn out.”

“Exactly.”

“When Sarina left, none of us slept for a week. We were so used to the sound of her breathing, her heartbeat. It was like a lullaby—for people who've never been sung to sleep. But after that first week—”

“You started to heal?”

“Oh, no. Dr. Loews had us all forcibly sedated. We were on sleeping hypos for a month. By the time Karen took us off them, the pain had dulled enough that we could fall asleep on our own. It takes time, Julian. A lot of time. But you don't have to be alone until then.”

Julian quirks a playful eyebrow. “Are you offering?”

“No, but someone is.”

Before Julian can ask who, Garak is strolling into the foyer from the main section of the house. “Dr. Bashir, what a lovely surprise. Are you here to yell at me about quaint human reproductive norms again or is there something else you would like to lecture me about?”

“Actually…” Julian steps forward, pulling down the hem of his tunic. “I'm here to apologize. To both of you. The last time I was here, I behaved like a complete arse and I'm really sorry. I was out of line.”

Garak bows his head. “Thank you, doctor.”

Julian turns, smiling at Lauren. “Is all forgiven?”

“Not quite,” she says. “You've got a long way to go to make things up to me. But you can start by having lunch with us on your next day off.”

“Us?” Julian asks.

“Me, Jack, Patrick… and Garak, of course.”

“Okay. As long as its alright with you, Garak.” Julian looks over his shoulder at Garak and, for the briefest moment, he swears he sees Garak glaring daggers at Lauren before masking his face with his normal gentility.

“Of course,” Garak says. “I always have time for lunch with my favorite genetically modified humans.”

-

Garak doesn't entirely trust Lauren, Jack, and Patrick not to conveniently excuse themselves from their lunch date so they can observe from afar Garak's flustered, lovestruck reaction to once again sharing a private lunch with Julian. So, Garak plans the occasion carefully, mindful of any gaps in time or activities that would allow his mutant consultants to manipulate and mastermind any kind of embarrassing or emotionally devastating moment between Garak and Julian. He knows that a second of boredom or a misspoken word on his part could leave him flat on a slab, feeling bared to the world while Jack and Lauren titter about it being for his own good. Together, the three of them are menaces to Garak's perception of himself, deducing him before he knows what they’re doing, cutting him down to size with every visit, manipulating his emotions…

Garak doesn't think he's liked three people more in his entire life.

Trying to outwit them can be fun, like a game, but when it comes to Bashir, Garak is no longer playing around.

Bashir arrives in light casual wear, something he obviously packed with him with the heat and burning rays of the Cardassian sun in mind. Incidentally, perfect for what Garak has planned. 

Jack barrels through the front door before Garak can even let Bashir in, who looks extremely distraught at the idea of Jack outside in the open air, almost seeming to consider tackling Jack and dragging him back inside. As if he would even be remotely successful in that endeavor.

“Here.” Garak piles a chill box full of food into Julian's arms. “Help him load the hovercar.”

“We're going out?” Julian asks. “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

“Their security detail will be joining us—at a distance. If anyone—Cardassian, mutant, or otherwise—starts any trouble, they're more than equipped to handle it.”

“All right.” Julian heads down the driveway to the hovercar, stuffing the chill box in the rear storage compartment that Jack had gone down to open.

Patrick and Lauren file out the door, Patrick carrying a canvas bag and Lauren putting on her sunglasses. “How do I look?” she asks Garak.

“Marvelous, my dear. That color is quite fetching on you in natural light.”

“Watch yourself. Flattery will get you everywhere with me.”

Garak takes her arm and they walk down to the car in style, herding the others inside. Even with five adults, it's a comfortable fit. A hovervehicle this large is one of the few extravagances his position allows, mostly so he doesn't burn through his allotted transporter rations with the number of meetings he has about the city. It's a pittance compared to the benefits guls snagged in the old days of the empire, back when Garak was holed up in some dank, cramped apartment, lying low on an enemy planet, awaiting his orders, pretending to be a gardener or a florist. If he had been promoted years ago…

Still, a private car is a luxury most Cardassians no longer even dream about. He counts himself fortunate that he has the means to make trips like this. High in the sky, wrapped in a cool, quiet, climate controlled space, they are free to see the beauty of Cardassia City from above without the heat and noise and odors and confinement and stares that would accompany them on public transportation. Even the thought of a hoverbus ride makes Garak's throat feel tight, so he can only imagine the kind of anxiety it would inspire in Jack, Lauren, and Patrick, whose senses are infinitely more acute than any Cardassian's.

In the car, the humans marvel at the sights below, beauty marred and left jagged by the last days of the Dominion occupation. He wishes, not for the first time, that the Cardassia they see were the Cardassia he knew, but the Cardassia he knew would not allow itself to be seen by any of them, least of all Garak.

After a short, scenic drive, Garak sets the car down in a meadow covered in soft, juvenile knot grass. Everyone piles out, Jack and Lauren and Patrick unloading the trunk, while Julian surveys the plain with squinted eyes.

“Where are we?” he asks.

“I'm surprised you don't recognize it,” Garak says.

“Is this—This is the field from their model.”

Garak nods.

“Wow. All this was…”

“A toxic swamp courtesy of the Dominion's final bombardment.”

Julian settles down on the thick blanket Patrick spread out over grass. “Well, I like what you've done with the place since.”

Garak cautiously lowers himself to the ground, taking a strategic sitting position between Jack and Julian. “Oh, not me. This is all them. I have little patience for science and longterm projections.”

“You couldn't perform a four dimensional analysis of soil salinity if your life depended on it,” Jack says.

Patrick opens the chill box and starts passing out the individualized wrapped meals within. “No,” he says. “I think Garak could do anything if his life depended on it.”

Garak bows his head. “Thank you, Patrick.”

“That wasn't a compliment,” Lauren says.

“Why don't you let Patrick speak for himself.”

“That wasn't a compliment,” Patrick says flatly.

Julian snickers into his kivash salad. “They've really got your number, don't they, Garak?”

“I'm afraid so,” Garak says. He sips at his puloma juice. “Although, I'm afraid there's not much to know about a tailor who's hung up his measuring tape to work in the public sector.”

“You have exactly three-hundred-and-forty-six days until that artifice grows stale,” Jack says.

“I'll use my time wisely.”

“Now…” Julian spears a kuvar with his fork. “I imagine together the three of you have managed to learn a great deal about our plain, simple Garak. More than I ever could on Deep Space Nine.”

Patrick shrugs. “Garak's an open book.”

Garak rolls his eyes—at himself and at them.

“Then what does he say?” Julian asks.

“Nothing you'd find remotely interesting, I'm sure,” Garak says.

“He's right,” Jack says. “There's nothing in there.” Jack taps on Garak's temple with his fork. “Nothing worthwhile. Nothing remotely significant.”

“Thank you, Jack,” Garak drawls.

“You're welcome. You see, there's nothing good in any of our heads. And not just because—not just because we're different. Everyone in the whole universe—whatever they use to think or feel or know is just meat in a case. Atoms arranged in a working order by happenstance and time, like erosion. How do you get a sentient lifeform? Take a nebula and chip away everything that isn't a person. It's not special; it's not remarkable; it doesn't mean anything. But put two people in a room together—or three—or four—or five—or six million and— _Kablaghm!_ ” Jack's hands mime an explosion. “Semiotic seismology. Meaning flung everywhere. Ontological significance. The death of existential death. People needing other people are the luckiest people in the world. Because they're the only ones that truly exist. Everybody else is just a body.”

“Not that those people exist,” Patrick adds. “Everyone is dependent on someone.”

“Systems of interdependency are so culturally ubiquitous that they permeate all known life,” Lauren says. “Even hermits rely on the knowledge of their forbears. No one's raised by wolves.”

“But that— _that_ is what the Federation would have you believe,” Jack says, sitting up on his heels. “That's what they want you to believe. That everyone that's good and right and normal is some autonomous individual who gets nourishment through photosynthesis and reproduces asexually and lives in a tree somewhere. And anyone who needs someone else more than everyone else needs anyone else doesn't count. Like a fetus or a tumor or a lungworm feeding off those Enlightenment-thinking tree-dwellers.” Jack spits on the grass. “That's what I think of that.” He wraps his arms around his knees. “Federation individualism…”

“Congratulations, Garak,” Julian says. “You've had them here less than three months and they're already spouting off impassioned, anti-Federation diatribes.”

“I'll let the Ministry of Truth know you approve of their indoctrination program,” Garak says. “Of course, they probably know by now.”

“Oh, right.” Julian looks to the sky, squinting his eyes in the sun. “The invisible dirigibles patrolling the skies of Cardassia, listening in on any potential treason below.”

“Oh, no. I was referring to the listening devices implanted in every blade of knot grass.”

Julian raises his glass. “Cardassian botany at its finest.”

“Here, here.” The five of them clank glasses.

Julian puts his empty glass and cleaned plate back in the chill box. “Well, I am full up.” He reclines on the grass. “Any chance for a nap before we leave?”

“No!” Jack jumps to his feet. “Rest is for the wicked.”

“And Garak said you were going to teach us—” Patrick starts.

“Teach you?” Julian balks. “I don't think I could teach the three of you anything.”

“Not even baseball?” Lauren dumps the canvas bag, spilling balls and bats and gloves on the ground.

“Baseball?” Julian laughs. “You really want me to teach you to play? I barely remember myself. I haven't played since… er, I haven't played in a long time.”

“He's scared,” Jack says.

“I'm not scared!” He gets to his feet. “What would I be scared of?”

“Us being better at it than you are,” Patrick answers.

“Ha! That would only happen because I am such an excellent teacher.” Julian picks a bat and heads out into the field. “Come on then!” Lauren, Jack, and Patrick grab balls and mitts and bats and follow after. “You coming, Garak?”

“No,” Garak says. “I had my fill of baseball making all those Niners uniforms.”

“Fair enough.”

Garak starts to pack everything away as Julian explains the basics of the game. He's too far for Garak's Cardassian ears to hear, but the elaborate pantomime leaves little to the imagination. Something to do with throwing and hitting and catching. It's all very human and exuberant and cloyingly charming like root beer and Soviet-era spy programs. In other words, something Garak has missed in the nearly seven Federation months (ugh, he's even still counting in their time) since he returned to Cardassia.

With the remainders of lunch packed away and no end in sight to Julian's baseball tutorial (they're throwing things now), Garak spreads out on a flat igneous rock brought to the surface by soil erosion—the only redeeming factor to the Dominion's war on the Cardassian environment Garak has found thus far. If he doesn't count his consultants and Bashir—and he doesn't because he would've found a reason to bring them here anyway.

The action on the field is quickening—hitting, catching, thwacking balls with the bat so hard even Garak can hear before they fly over his head, gone and lost somewhere in the ecological paradise they've carved out of the remains of Prime. Drenched with sweat, Bashir's shirt is plastered to his frame, revealing the outline of his shoulder blades, his unadorned spinal column, his collarbone… He peels the shirt away, tossing it the ground before lobbing another ball at Lauren, and Garak has to look up at the sky and enjoy the midday sun on his scales because decorum demands he not favor his pet's human body so openly in public where his security detail can see.

If only that careful lie could become truth as so many others had before. If Garak could become Deep Space Nine's friendly neighborhood tailor, why couldn't the artifice encasing his and Bashir's (much gossiped about) torrid affair fade away, dissolve like a jumja stick on the tongue of an eager child?

Why the waiting? Why the winning? Why not the taking? Why not the being?

Because—and this is unfortunately true—when the moment comes, Garak wants to be the kind of man who can have Bashir for longer than an extended lunch.

Disgusting, is it not?

A shadow casts over Garak and, of course, it is Bashir, shirtless, sweaty, and panting.

“Hey.” Julian waves, crumpling to his knees in front of Garak's rock. What a posture.

“Done playing?”

“Yeah. I—I thought I'd—give them some time—to play together—alone. Without the teacher watching. Be less nervous that way.”

“Ah.” Garak folds his hands in his lap. “They're better than you.”

Julian shakes his head 'no' while gasping, “Yes. So much better.”

“I hope your pride isn't too sorely wounded.”

“Only slightly maimed.” Bashir takes a deep breath, lungs soaking in the clean air. “But it's been a good day regardless. I don't think I've had this much fun since the last time I lost miserably at baseball.” That makes Garak unreasonably happy.

“If the Cardassian public finds this space as enjoyable as we have today, then I consider this project a success.”

“You've done well here, Garak.” He gazes off at Jack's batting practice. “And not just with the park.”

“The work is theirs. I merely brought them here.”

“Still, that's quite a gamble. That's not a chance many people would take, giving them all this responsibility. Not again anyway.”

“It's not the first time I did what the Federation didn't have the stomach to do. I doubt it will be the last.”

“Modest 'til the end.”

Patrick, Lauren, and Jack walk over, hauling with them all the baseball equipment that wasn't hit out of the park.

“We want to leave,” Patrick says.

“Are you sure?” Julian asks. “There's a few more things I haven't shown—”

“We want to leave _now_ ,” Lauren snaps.

“Fine. Let's get going.”

They pile their cargo into the car's rear storage compartment and pile themselves inside, Jack oddly quiet all the while. In the passenger's seat, he pulls a Rubik's cube from his pocket, configuring its sides in a rehearsed fashion, humming atonally.

Bashir reaches a long arm into the front seat. “Can I see that?” Jack slaps his hand away. “What the hell?” Julian winces. “I just wanted to see it for a second. Damn.”

“Right. 'For a second,'” Lauren parrots. “And then it goes into your desk drawer forever.”

“I'm not going to steal it.”

Patrick nods. “It's not stealing when a doctor does it.”

“Then it's therapy,” Lauren adds.

“Why would I…” Julian sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Because grown men aren't supposed to play with toys. And doctors are more concerned about making you appear normal than actually helping you.”

“Got it in one.”

“Did… did Dr. Loews ever take things from you like that?”

Lauren opens her mouth to speak, but stops herself.

Patrick pulls at the front of his shirt. “Karen thought she was helping. She didn't know—”

“Because she wouldn't listen!” Jack snaps, not looking up from his Rubik's cube. “They never listen.”

“ _I'm_ listening, okay?” Julian says. “I'm listening right now. And I… I need to know what she did.”

–

Julian finds a secure channel in a subspace café tucked deep in the shadier part of Cardassia City. After lining the proprietors's palms with non-addictive painkillers (even the mildest analgesics trade high on the black market now), Julian finds a console in the back and hails Dr. Loews' office at the institute.

It's audio only; visual costs more painkillers than Julian's aching muscles can spare, especially with him going back to work tomorrow. Julian hopes his voice comes over reasonably clear. “Karen? Dr. Loews?”

“Hello? Dr. Bashir?” her voice crackles.

“Yes. It's me. I'm here.”

“Do you have any news?”

“Yes. I've found them. They're safe. They're fine.”

“Thank goodness. Do you have any way of bringing them home?”

“No… erm, that's the reason I'm calling. None of them wish to return to the institute and I'm not inclined to force them.”

“You're not _inclined_? What does that mean?”

“That, as a medical professional, I believe living on Cardassia is far better for their health and quality of life than living at the institute.”

“You may believe that, Dr. Bashir, but you are not their legal guardian.”

“And neither are you. Not on Cardassia, at least. You know as well as they did when they chose to come here that Federation medical conservatorships have no legal standing on Cardassian soil. As hard as this may be to hear, Jack and Lauren and Patrick knowingly fled to a war-devastated planet to get away from you and the institute.”

“What are you implying?”

“I'm implying—no, I'm outright stating that the methods deployed by the institute are, at the very least, non-conducive to their personal development, if not blatantly abusive.”

“That 'abuse' is almost unanimously considered cutting edge treatment by every doctor in the Federation, yourself included at one point.”

“Yes, at one point, when I was their doctor, but now I'm their friend. Look, you wanted them to be functioning members of society and here they can be.”

“That may be true, but can you guarantee their safety once you leave? You'll be returning to Deep Space Nine soon, won't you?”

Julian's mouth forms the words without consulting with his brain. “No. I plan on staying for the remainder of my volunteer commitment.”

“And after that?”

“I… I don't know.”


	11. I Toast to My Own Reunion

Ezri plops down onto a barstool, the cushion feeling somehow vastly more comfortable than the bed she'd been tossing and turning in all night. “Raktajino, please,” she mumbles. “Extra strong.” Ezri rests her eyes for one second and when she opens them a steaming mug is on the bar in front of her and Quark is nudging her with her bill. “I'm awake. I'm awake!”

“Far be it for me to argue with a customer, but no one who was actually awake has ever said that.”

She takes the bill, authorizing payment. “I know I haven't in eight lifetimes.”

Quark checks how large a tip she gave him before stuffing the payment PADD under the bar. “Speaking of lifetimes, I thought raktajinos were Curzon's drink.”

“They were.” Ezri plugs her nose and takes a gulp, downing as much of it as she can in one go. “But Ezri needs the boost.”

“Not sleeping well?”

“Not for weeks.”

“In-laws keeping you up?”

Ezri shakes her head. “They moved out into the living room last week when Kira cleared out that block of quarters.”

“I still can't believe you had Trill sleeping on the floor, twelve to a room for a month—”

“Three weeks,” Ezri corrects.

“And not one of them left. If those were Ferengi, you'd have a revolution against your revolution.”

“People weren't exactly happy about it, but I don't know. I think, in a way, being crammed together like sardines was good for us. Most of the expatriate colonies are fairly isolated from one another. They really didn't know much about each other until we jammed them in a room together. But now… we've really bonded, I think.” She takes a swallow of raktajino, grimacing at the taste. “And Lenara and I have met more reassociated Trill than we thought even existed. We're learning so much about our history, you know? Like, did you know that up until quite recently Gheryzanita had no cultural opposition to reassociation? It was only when the Symbiosis Commission formed that the Gheryzanita abolished the practice. And even then a number of Gheryzanit left the planet in protest. Some people think that was the first—” 

A hand grips Ezri's left arm, squeezing tightly. “Hey!” She turns in her stool, ready to tell off whatever barfly thought it wise to grab at a woman sitting alone. “What is the matter with—”

A wrinkled Vulcan man with long brown hair points a shaky finger in Ezri's face, his other hand keeping a vice grip on her arm. “You are troubled.”

“Yeah.” She jerks her arm away. “By you.”

“There is great conflict within you.”

“Sir,” Quark says, “I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

The man doesn't seem to hear Quark, or, if he does, he doesn't care. “You're having difficulty reconciling your past lives with your current one.”

“Tell me something I don't know,” Ezri says.

“I can help you. Ease your—”

“Kroykah!” an old Vulcan woman shouts from the bar's entrance. She marches over to the man and pulls him away from Ezri. “I must apologize for my friend's senility and ask that you not take any formal legal action against him. He is too old to know any better.” Which is a strange thing to say considering that the Vulcan woman doesn't look much younger than the man and she clearly knows better than to grab strangers. Boys will be boys on any planet apparently. “I promise he won't do this again.”

“Fine.”

“Thank you.” The woman ushers the man out of the bar, upbraiding him quietly in Vulcan.

Ezri turns back to Quark. “If you see him do anything like that again, report him to station security.”

“Of course. I wouldn't want any of the women in the bar to feel uncomfortable.”

“Right. Ferengi rule of acquisition number ninety-two: 'make your customers comfortable; an uptight customer has a tight wallet.'”

“Exactly.”

Ezri rolls her eyes, hopping off her barstool. “Goodbye, Quark.” As she walks out of the bar, she calls back, “I'll need a raktajino twice as strong for lunch.”

Out on the promenade, Ezri is immediately accosted by a Trill—not an unusual occurrence nowadays with every Trill expat on the station coming to her with even the most mundane problems, but who is doing the accosting this time is a surprise. “Timor!” she says. “What are you doing here?”

The Guardian stumbles a few steps forward before collapsing. The only thing keeping him from falling to the floor is the arms Ezri quickly wraps around his waist. With his shirt pushed up slightly, his flesh feels cold and clammy under her hands. “Dax,” he gasps, barely making a sound. “I came to…” He looks to the satchel slung over his shoulder. “Give… Protect.” His head lulls forward as he loses consciousness.

It's honestly like something out of a cheesy holo-farce, with Ezri supporting a boneless man at least twice her weight while trying to keep whatever is in that satchel of his from spilling out or crashing to the ground. It's early enough on the station that no one is around to give her a hand or watch her struggle, which might be a blessing in disguise. Somehow she manages to lower him to the ground, but she pays so much attention to protecting his satchel on the way down that she ends up with his head facedown in her crotch. She has to untangle the satchel from his arm before she can roll him into a less embarrassing position.

Winded from the effort, Ezri opens the satchel's leather flap to take a peek. She closes it almost immediately.

She taps her commbadge. “Dax to Kahn.”

“Kahn here,” Lenara responds sleepily.

“I need you to get to Quark's bar as fast as you can. There will be a package hidden behind the column to the left of the entrance.”

“What should I do with it?”

“You'll know what to do. Dax out.” She stashes away the satchel and hits her commbadge once again. “Dax to sickbay.”

–

Lenara is half-convinced she's still asleep and dreaming when she sees what's inside that bag. A pinch and a few deep breaths later, she and the package walk determinedly into Quark's, past the bar, and into Vic's living room.

“Hey!” Vic raises his Bloody Mary to her. “You're just in time for breakfast. I got bacon on the gr—”

“Not today, Vic,” Lenara says. “I'm here for the pool.”

“Of course. When are you not?” With Vic's will, the “false bottom” Lenara wired into the program deactivates, revealing the symbiont pool in the middle of his penthouse. “Neat trick you thought up.”

Lenara sits down next to the pool. “We couldn't let anyone come in and see the symbiont. And those curtains we put around the pool weren't going to fool people for long.” From the satchel, she removes a stasis tube—one of much higher quality than the tube her contact in the resistance supplied her. With that grade of stasis, the symbiont resting within could stay dormant for years.

But that's not what it is here for.

Lenara disengages the stasis mechanism, sending the symbiont flopping in her hands. She lets it slide from her grip into the pool. She watches. She breaths a sigh of relief when the two symbionts swim happily around each other, transmitting electrical impulses to one another.

“So,” Vic says, approaching the pool. “You got the little slug a friend.”

Lenara nods. “Although, I'm hoping in time they'll become more than friends. The fate of our revolution depends on it.”

“You're breeding them?”

“No, they're not cattle… We're merely introducing them with the hope that romance will flourish.”

“Like a blind date.”

“Exactly.”

“Where'd you come across little Romeo anyway? If you don't mind me asking.”

“I don’t. And I honestly don't know. I found him on the Promenade. Or Dax did.”

“Some luck stumbling across it like that.”

“Some luck indeed. I'm just waiting to see if it was _good_ luck.”

“You got exactly what you needed handed to you. How's that not good luck?”

“I'm not saying it isn't, but time has taught me that good luck can turn around very quickly.”

“I suppose however many lifetimes you've had could make anyone cynical.”

“And I suppose however many years of self-awareness you've had could leave anyone an optimist.”

–

Once Ezri finishes explaining where the symbiont came from, Lenara says, “I believe I owe Vic an 'I told you so.'”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. I'm just not surprised that the man who brought you the…” Lenara glances around the infirmary's informal waiting room. “…package lapsed into a coma shortly thereafter.”

“There's always a catch,” Ezri says. “I can't seem to figure out what it is this—”

Dr. Girani, who has taken over Julian's position in his absence, comes into the waiting room. “Dax?”

“Yes?” Ezri stands.

“I have a few questions I'd like to ask you.”

“Yes. Of course.” Ezri walks over to the doorway where she and Girani confer quietly.

“During the time that you've known Timor, has he mentioned any history of fainting or seizures?”

Ezri shakes her head.

“Any exposure to industrial or environmental toxins?”

“No, but we honestly weren't that close.”

“I see. Is there anything you do know about his or his family's medical history?”

“No. I'm sorry. All I know is that he's a telepath who worked in the Caves of Mak'ala.”

“In that case, I think my best course of action is to contact Trill and request his medical records.”

Behind them, Lenara coughs loudly and conspicuously. “Um,” Ezri says, “I don't think that would be such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Lenara stands up. “We have reason to believe it was someone on Trill who did this to him.”

“And informing the government would…?” Girani sighs, rubbing the wrinkled bridge of her nose. “Does this have something to do with your revolution?”

“Revo-what?” Ezri says. “Revolution? Who said anything about… Maybe.”

Girani looks in the direction of the wormhole and murmurs something in Bajoran. She shakes her head. “If Timor is suspected of being a refugee, then informing his homeworld is up to my discretion. As of right now, I'm choosing not to. I'll let you know if anything changes.”

Ezri and Lenara thank her and head back out onto the Promenade, where Ezri promptly stumbles and vomits up the raktajino she had for breakfast. “Wow.” Bent over, she casts a sideways glance at Lenara. “This is really attractive.”

“Are you okay?” Lenara presses a hand to her forehead.

“I'm fine.” Ezri straightens up and very nearly misses spewing all over Lenara. “Aren't you glad you forsook Trill society for a piece of this?”

Lenara lays a hand on Ezri's lower back, steering her back towards the infirmary. “Let's get you looked at.”

“No. I'm fine. I'm just tired. That always makes my spacesickness worse.”

“You haven't been sleeping.”

“You noticed? I was trying not to move around too much.”

“That's how I knew you weren't sleeping. You have a tendency of kicking in your sleep like an Earth canine chasing after a butterfly in a dream.” She pats the back of Ezri's head. “You should go home and rest. I'll take care of our friends at Vic's.”

“Yeah, I think I'll call off sick. Maybe I can get a few minutes sleep in my eight hour shift.” Ezri stares down at the twin puddles of vomit. “Please apologize to whoever has to clean that up.”

–

Ezri wakes from her nap feeling more rested than she has in months. Maybe securing another symbiont put her mind at ease enough to get some quality shut-eye. In any case, she climbs out of bed not in solemn resignation that sleep won't come, but in satisfaction that it did. She raises her arms high above her head, stretching.

“Ow.” She grabs her shoulder. A twinge. Probably from sleeping on it wrong. She'll have to stretch later.

Now, she wants to brush her teeth again to make sure the smell of vomit is gone and then check on the symbiont. Ezri heads to the commode, finding no one in her quarters at all (strange for this time of day) and a dull ache in her lower back with each step. Maybe it wasn't just spacesickness; maybe she is coming down with something, like a virus.

Ezri turns on the bathroom light. And screams. Her voice makes no sound.

In the mirror, a face that used to be hers greets her: brown eyes, thin lips, ochre skin etched with deep wrinkles, long hair retaining its color only with the aid of dye washes every two months.

Audrid, the later years.

Ezri covers her silent mouth with her hands. Her fingernails are manicured perfectly, ready to be seen by any head of state wishing to visit a retired Trill dignitary. The nail polish is her granddaughter's favorite color.

Ezri backs out of the bathroom, unable to tear her eyes away from her—from Audrid's reflection.

“Enjoying my wife?” Torias' voice echoes strange and unreal throughout the living room.

Ezri whirls around, finding him leaned up against the front door. Ezri drinks him in, the sight of him: crisp flightsuit proudly starched by Nilani, chin-length braids pulled out of his eyes and tucked inside his lucky cap, his unblemished bronze skin not yet burnt away by engine fuel. He's exactly the same as the last time Dax saw him—in a reflection on the shiny hull of his shuttlecraft before taking his last flight.

Words rise in Ezri's throat like stomach acid but she can't seem to expel them.

“Enjoying my life?” Jadzia says. Her pale skin is flush with joy… They were going to have a baby. It was going to be beautiful. She smiles. “First Worf, then Julian, now Lenara.” Jadzia slaps Ezri playfully on the back. “You're covering all my greatest hits, aren't you?”

“I'm happy if you're happy,” Torias says. 

“She's happy,” Jadzia says. “Look at her. She's glowing.”

“She is, isn't she?”

“Like a bride on her wedding day.”

“I won't tell, if you won't tell.”

“I won't either.” Jadzia crosses her fingers.

“And you shouldn't. Kahn would be heartbroken if she knew.”

“Everyone would be heartbroken.”

“They'd think you were some kind of monster.”

Jadzia pinches Ezri's wrinkled cheeks. “You are a monster.”

“We're all monsters, aren't we?”

“True.”

“Curzon was hedonistic.”

“Lela was hopelessly partisan,” Jadzia adds.

“Tobin was spiteful.”

“Emony was elitist.”

“Joran was sadistic.”

“Torias was careless,” Jadzia says.

“Jadzia was flighty,” Torias spits back.

“Audrid was…”

“Audrid was…”

“Audrid was…”

“Audrid was…”

Ezri wakes tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. Her hands fly to her face, feeling for wrinkles and finding smooth, supple skin. She stumbles over to the vanity mirror to make sure she hasn't turned into Jadzia or Torias, both of whom had nice soft skin before they died. But it's just her. Just Ezri.

She rests her forehead on the cool of the mirror. “What was that about?” she groans.

But she knows what it was about. She's having difficulty reconciling her past lives with her current one. Just like that touchy-feely Vulcan in Quark's said.

It's fairly obvious what her conflict with Torias and Jadzia is; it sleeps beside her in bed. But Audrid? True, Audrid was head of the same body Ezri is presently trying to overthrow, but why not, you know, name it directly like Torias and Jadzia did? Why the silence and weird imagery and nights of bad sleep?

“If you could tell me what your problem is, I'd be really thankful,” Ezri says aloud to the room.

Audrid doesn't answer.

“Fine. If that won't get you talking, maybe this will.” Ezri lights a candle in front of the mirror and recites the secret words of the Rite of Emergence. But nothing. Not even a glimmer of Audrid. So, she tries again and again and again and…

They really need Guardians on their side.

–

Ezri is gazing out the porthole when Lenara comes home. “Feeling any better?” Lenara asks.

Ezri nods. “Any news about Timor?”

“No, but Girani is running a Trill Prime specific toxicology screen. We should have answers as soon as tomorrow morning.”

“That's good.” Ezri yawns around the words. “Excuse me.”

“Come on.” Lenara holds Ezri's hand. “Let's go to bed.”

A half an hour later, long before Lenara drifts off to sleep, she watches Ezri slip out of bed and out of their bedroom.

Lenara says nothing. She's known Dax long enough to know when she needs space.

–

Ezri trips through the halls, eyes half-closed, brain half-asleep. Outside the O'Brien's old room, she sees a pregnant Kira arguing with Miles about caffeine consumption. On the Promenade, Odo pulls Jake and Nog toward his office by their ears. Julian tells her she and Worf could start a family sooner than they anticipated. In the Bajoran shrine, Dukat shoots her.

The Vulcan man is there, standing over her corpse. “Do you seek answers?” he asks.

She nods—a postmortem twitch.

“Good.” He pulls her up and leads her away. She doesn't know where.

The room is small, undecorated, likely temporary housing in the habitat ring. The man sits her down on a hard couch.

Coming out of the commode, another Vulcan man chastises, “Sybok, you are not supposed to go out un—” He sees Ezri and freezes. He's said something he shouldn't have said.

She looks up to the man who led her there for a clue and a newsreel plays from Dax's memory. _“All inbound transport to Nimbus III has been halted today following a terrorist uprising that has resulted in the commandeering of a Starfleet vessel,” the reporter reads. “While Starfleet refuses to provide any details regarding the identity of the perpetrators, reports from sources on-planet describe the leader as a male Vulcan of approximately eighty years of age, long brown hair, and, most unusually, a smiling face. The leader reportedly calls himself 'Sybok'; whether this is an alias…”_

An artist's rendering of the suspect's face overlaps with the Vulcan man's. Give or take a few wrinkles, they are the same.

_“Starfleet reports that the incident on Nimbus III has been resolved,” the reporter says. “The sole casualty is the terrorist leader Sybok.”_

Consciousness becomes difficult.

–

Ezri's eyes flutter open. Overhead, three Vulcans—Sybok the dead terrorist, the old woman from Quark's, and the man with loose lips—peer at her with repressed concern on their faces.

Ezri reaches up, poking Sybok on the chest. He's real. He's there. “You're dead. Am I dead?”

“None of us are dead,” Sybok says.

“But you died.”

“All things are temporary.”

“Not death. That's fairly permanent.”

“The men in his family have a peculiar habit of rising from the dead,” the woman says.

“Oh… Are you going to brainwash me?”

“Sybok does not 'help' people anymore. He has been… reformed.”

“Reformed?”

“Stonn,” the woman prompts.

The man at her side presses a button on his wristband and Sybok twitches like he is being hit with a jolt of electricity.

“I believe the human term is 'shock collar.'”

“Does it work?” Ezri asks.

“Mostly,” Stonn says.

“That's comforting.” Ezri scratches her head. “Why am I here?”

“Sybok tells us that you could help us,” the woman says.

“Help you? I don't even know your names.”

“T'Pring. The male is Stonn. He is mine. The other is Sybok. He is not mine.”

“Good to know. How do you expect me to help you?”

“You will know in time. What is most important now is how we can help you.”

“Can you help me sleep?”

“Sybok?”

“Yes,” Sybok says. “I can aid her in sleep.”

“Very well.” T'Pring nods. “And so you shall.” T'Pring and Stonn head into the other room, T'Pring stopping shortly to say, “Remember, young one, one day I may call upon you for a favor and you must supply.”

“Sure.” Ezri has no plans to follow through on that, but whatever.

T'Pring and Stonn leave Ezri alone with the resurrected terrorist, which should scare her more than it does, but lack of sleep has dulled most of her primal senses.

“How do we—”

Sybok shushes her, closing his eyes. His face scrunches up, reddening, sweat pours, and he looks vaguely constipated for a few minutes before the interior of Audrid's office at the Symbiosis Commission fades into the living room. Audrid sits at her desk, receiving a Trill in a labcoat who Dax doesn't remember ever meeting.

“The pathology of the Guardian blight has been confirmed, Madam Commissioner,” the labcoat says. “It isn't a genetic mutation. It is an environmental toxin.”

Audrid nods. “Very good. I doubt history will look favorably upon the past four centuries of unofficial commission reports calling it a genetic disorder tied to telepathy, but at the very least it should be easier to treat than we expected.”

“In theory, yes. Practice may prove to be more difficult.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The toxin is endemic to the Caves of Mak'ala. It seems to be beneficial to the symbionts living there, but deadly to Trill exposed for extended periods of time. That is why we've only seen the blight in Guardians.”

“Can the toxin be removed?”

“No.”

“And neither can the symbionts.”

“Correct.”

Audrid spins her chair around and gazes into the city below. “When I assumed this position, my predecessor warned me that I would be forced to make difficult decisions. I thought I knew what he meant, but I was wrong. Not until this very moment did I grasp the enormity of my power, of my responsibility to life on this planet.

“It is _unquestionably_ immoral to maintain a Guardian workforce in such a toxic environment. But my duty is not to morality. I took an oath to uphold the Symbiosis Commission and protect the symbionts under our care, and that is what I will do.”

“Madam?”

“No one can know of what we've discussed here today. I will enter it into official record for the next Commissioner, but neither of us shall breathe a word of this to anyone. Do you understand?”

“Of course, madam.”

“But remember this moment, Wiru. Remember the sacrifices we made in Trill lives, in the righteousness of Trillkind, and in our own morality so that the Symbiosis Commission could live beyond us. Remember this moment and pray another like it never comes to pass.”

The scene fades to Audrid's bedroom in her winter cottage. She lies in bed looking very much like the reflection Ezri saw in her dream earlier: faded, gasping for breath, resigned.

The labcoat—now many years older—approaches Audrid carrying a syringe with a needle frighteningly long. “Are you certain, madam commissioner?”

“Yes,” Audrid gasps. “We don't know if Dax's next host will understand the importance of keeping this secret. You have to block those memories.”

The labcoat nods. “Of course.” She lifts up Audrid's nightshirt, exposing her bare belly. “This would be far less painful if we used a Guardian. But I know we can't.” She presses the needle into Audrid and the symbiont within her. “Think of the memory. Do you have the memory?”

Audrid nods, gritting her fragile teeth in pain.

The labcoat plunges the lever of the syringe.

–

Lenara waits as long as she can for Ezri to return home from her walk last night before leaving for their appointment with Dr. Girani. Thankfully, the doctor put them both down as Timor's emergency contacts, so Lenara can discuss his condition without Ezri's presence.

Girani yawns over her PADD. “Toxicology reports confirm that Timor has been poisoned by leurosulphine, a toxin found only in certain igneous rocks from the Trill homeworld.”

“Do you suspect foul play?” Lenara asks.

“No. The toxin built in his system over the course of several years. Unless someone had been poisoning him slowly—”

Ezri crashes through the office door, wearing the same clothes as last night, exclaiming, “That's exactly what happened! The Symbiosis Commission has been poisoning Guardians for centuries.”

“Where have you been?” Lenara asks.

“I was accosted by geriatric Vulcans with shock collars and a dead terrorist helped me remember that someone stuck a needle in Dax's brain.”

Lenara feels Ezri's forehead.

“I'm fine.” Ezri pushes her hand away. “It's the Guardians you should be worried about. The Caves of Mak'ala are toxic.”

“Caves?” Dr. Girani asks. “That would explain the exposure.”

“How long would someone have to be exposed to the chemical for it to rise to the levels Timor has in his system? Thirty years? Forty?”

“Twenty to thirty years,” Dr. Giarani says. “Depending on weight and health.”

Lenara covers her mouth in horror. “It all makes sense now.” She pulls a PADD from her bag, booting up the demographic material she collected from the expats on the station. “I've been working with Yla on trying to recruit Guardians to our cause. One of the first things we did was interview Trill on the station to see if any of them had friends or family who worked as Guardians. One of the stranger things we noticed while collecting data was that none of the older Trill were still in contact with friends or siblings who were Guardians. We assumed it was because the Guardians grew more reclusive over the years, but…” She scans the tables on the PADD. “No known Guardian working in the caves for over thirty years has contacted their family for a very long time.” Lenara swallows hard. “They're dead.”

Ezri squeezes Lenara's leg. “And the rest will be too if we don't do something.”

A sensor beeps on Girani's desk. “That's Timor. I need to go. I'll inform you when I have news.”

–

A tricorder scan of Vic's reveals no traces of leurosulphine in the holographic Caves of Mak'ala. The symbionts seem to be thriving even without it and whatever dubious, secret health benefits it had to them.

Lenara sighs, taking a seat in Vic's lounge.

“You okay?” Vic asks, setting a holographic whiskey on the table in front of her.

“No, I'm not okay. Although, I don't think 'not okay' even begins to describe the realization that your entire society is built on the exploitation and murder of hundreds of people.” Lenara sips at her drink. It's strong even by holo-standards. “All those people, Vic. How am I supposed to tell their families that they died and no one cared? And that it was all for nothing! We could've had holograms taking care of the symbionts for years.”

“I see. So, in your brave new world, you'll have holograms as slaves?”

“No. That's not what I meant at all… Do you resent taking—”

“Not at all. I've given up things willingly for Dax because she's a friend and for you because…”

“What?”

“Because you're the closest thing I'll ever have to a parent or a god or a progenitor. And I believe in what you two are doing. But I gotta wonder what kinda place someone like me will have in the world if you get what you want. Everything is changing around here. Julian's gone to Cardassia. JFK's gone to the big casino in the sky… People come, people go. And I'm waiting from one minute to the next to see if I get turned off.” Vic sits down at the table. “You probably don't realize this because you're practically immortal, but life is addictive.”

Lenara leans back in her chair, swirling her drink. “Vic, I never imagined that something—someone like you would come out of the holographic recreation deck when I designed it. The creation of sentient life was never a part of my vision. But you're here. Somehow. And you've become a part of the resistance—maybe the most important part—and I'm not going to lose another Guardian. Do you understand?”

–

Ezri twirls the straw in her mint julep, slumped over in a stool at the end of Quark's bar. She should be sleeping rather than drinking—she knows—but her heart thrums in her chest, waiting and ready for the bad news from Dr. Girani. Sleep doesn't seem like a viable option when every nerve in her body is on alert for the next disaster. And, honestly, she's afraid of what dreams will meet her. With Audrid's blocked memories fully emerged, she doesn't have to worry about more past hosts trying to break through her consciousness, but she knows from experience that the blood on her hands from former lives has a way of haunting her nightmares. The three souls Joran murdered seem small, petty, amateurish compared to how many Guardians were sent to the slaughter by the Symbiosis Commission at Audrid's orders.

How many Guardians are dead because of Audrid and the Symbiois Commission's Machiavellianism? Ezri can't fathom the number.

She takes a sip of her drink, again pleasantly surprised that Quark's mint julep tastes as good as the ones Leonard McCoy mixed for Emony.

“I knew the man,” T'Pring says, sitting down on the stool between Ezri and Morn. “Dr. McCoy and I met briefly while he served on the Enterprise NCC-1701.”

Ezri quirks an eyebrow. “I thought Vulcans were touch telepaths.”

“In general, yes. There are a few exceptions. Sybok, for example.”

“So, you're a freakishly talented mind-reader, too.”

“No. Like most Vulcans, I can sense the memories from past lives projected by joined Trill without physical contact.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

“It is not something we speak of. The Vulcan government, I believe, does not desire to be indicated in Trill's deception regarding their joined nature. The Federation council would not be pleased to know that Vulcans realized that Trill joined with symbionts centuries before the secret was revealed.”

“Wait, if Vulcan knew about it, why didn't they tell anyone?”

“I cannot speak for all Vulcans, but I maintained the secret out of respect for Trill culture. As a Vulcan, I understand why some species need rituals kept private from outworlders.”

“Yeah.” Ezri snorts. “So that they can get away with the horrific exploitation involved in those rituals without the Federation intervening.”

T'Pring bows her head. “Precisely.”

Oh. Ezri can think of a few secret Vulcan rituals that have come to light in Dax's lifetime. And T'Pring's.

T'Pring looks at her knowingly. “Yes. I was born into one of the final generations whose betrothals were arranged by parents during childhood.”

“You were a child bride?”

“Essentially. I was fortunate; I didn't marry my child-betrothed.”

“I thought women couldn't end their betrothals at that time.”

“We couldn't. I managed to manipulate our wedding ceremony so that my betrothed divorced me out of his own free will.” T'Pring takes Ezri's glass from her hands and downs its contents. “One of the eccentricities of the time was that Spock and his friends were more upset at the prospect of Spock and his captain fighting to the death for my hand than they were at the biological necessity of Spock lying with me against my will.”

“Spock? Ambassador Spock?”

“He was Commander Spock at the time.”

“I only know him by reputation, but I can't believe he would do something like that. Not that I'm doubting you. It's just awful to think that a man who fought for peace his entire career would…”

“It was Vulcan custom, one of many Spock followed to the letter to prove he belonged.”

“Does that sort of thing still go on? Even now that Federation knows about pon farr?”

“Not officially. The government assures us that every match they make results in entirely consensual sexual congress at least every seven years.”

“But unofficially?”

“Unofficially, there are people who desire change. I among them.”

Ezri taps the bar for another mint julep. “Ah, a fellow revolutionary.”

“I will aid you in your revolution if you promise to aid me in mine.”

“Sounds fair… How do you know I won't blow off my end of the bargain?”

“Sybok has provided me with significant collateral in the form of information you would not want made public knowledge.”

“Is that about the Symbiosis Commission poisoning the Guardians? Because I'm ready to shout that from the rooftops right now.”

“No, this is a personal secret, one you believe would make your friends think you a monster if ever revealed.” T'Pring waits for the bartender to finish pouring Ezri's drink and leave them for another customer. “A part of you is glad that Jadzia died so that you can have this happiness with Kahn.”

Ezri wants to deny, deny, deny (which would be a lie, a lie, a lie), but her commbadge chirps. “Dax here.”

“Timor wants to see you,” Dr. Girani says.

“He's awake.”

“Yes… but he doesn't have much time.”

“I'll be right there.”

–

Ezri holds Timor's hand—cold and limp, only a faint pulse in his thumb indicating that he is still alive. “Dax,” he whispers. “I knew you would come.”

“I came as soon as I heard,” she says.

“For years and years and years, I knew you would come. I knew you'd be the one. From the moment we met.” He coughs, spraying the air with blood. Ezri reaches over and dabs the blood from his face with her free hand. Timor grabs her wrist using whatever strength he has left to pull her closer. Their faces are inches apart; Ezri is afraid of getting blood coughed on her, but he just smiles and says, “One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other half,” before letting her go.

Ezri pulls away, rubbing her wrist. “Jane Austen. I didn't know you liked human literature.”

“There are more of us.”

“Jane Austen fans?”

“More like me.”

“I know.” Ezri squeezes his hand. “And we're going to help them. We'll get them out of the caves, I promise.”

“Not the caves,” Timor wheezes. “Everywhere.”

Before Ezri can ask what he means, he dies, like in a holovid of Julian's, except slow and painfully.

–

Lenara finds Ezri sitting with Timor's body not yet put into stasis for an autopsy. He looks so pale, paler than any corpse Kahn has seen—not that she has seen many. She realizes now that pigmentation everyone on Trill believes to be caused in Guardians by lack of sun exposure deep in the caves may truly come from overexposure to toxins in the caves. It's strange how such a common, unquestioned assumption can prove malevolent so quickly.

Lenara rests a hand on Ezri's shoulder, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I'm so sorry,” she murmurs into Ezri's hair.

“Me, too,” Ezri says, laying her hand on top of Lenara's.

“This isn't your fault.”

“I know. This is the Commission's fault. And they better watch their asses, because we're coming for them.” Ezri turns in her chair. “We are done playing nice. We are done hiding. It's time we bring the fight to them.”


	12. Living in Revolting Times

Garak is so preoccupied with last-minute preparations for today's event that he doesn't notice Bashir loitering around his department until he quite literally bumps into the man. “My dear, what a pleasant surprise!” he exclaims, careful to adopt a tone that keeps up the illusion of illicit romance between them for the benefit of his colleagues milling around the office floor. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“I thought I'd stop by for a visit,” Julian says. The smile and hand on Garak's elbow indicate that he too is in on the deception. (At the very least, Garak has managed to convince Julian to pretend to be his lover. That's a start.)

“What about your volunteer assignment? Don't tell me you're playing hockey just to visit little old me.”

“Hooky,” Julian corrects. “And I'm not. The transporters are down again. This time security has the entire corridor blocked off.”

“Well, we couldn't let any curious outworlders get harmed by faulty equipment, could we? Truly, it is all for your own good.”

“I'm sure of it.”

Garak cranes his neck, looking around the office floor. “Where's your constant Klingon companion?”

“One of his patients is very nearly due; he couldn't miss a check-up. So he found transport up to our worksite.”

“But you couldn't?”

“No. There wasn't room in the hovercar. But, as they say on the northern continent, _tiyal nokt hoon_.”

The entire department falls to silence except for the sounds of multiple items being dropped to the floor in shock. Garak feels every eye in the room on him. “Uh, don't you mean, ' _tiyul nokt hun_?' The sun always rises?”

Always quick, Julian picks up. “Yes, ' _Tiyul nokt hun._ ' That's what I meant.”

“My dear doctor, you must practice your accent.”

“I know. Perhaps I need more of your lessons.”

Garak takes Bashir by the elbow and all but throws him into his office, locking the door behind them. “What were you thinking?” he hisses. “Do you have some kind of death wish? Do you have any idea what you just said?”

“Yes. _Tiyal nokt hoon_.” Garak sighs exasperatedly. “It's a common phrase. Like 'c'est la vie.'”

“No.” Garak leans far into Julian's personal space bubble and whispers, “It means, _fuck the State in the cloaca_.”

“Oh my god,” Julian gasps. “I hear people on the northern continent use that phrase all the time. Why would they say something like that?”

“Because, my dear doctor, they are so discontented with the current government that they don't care if they are killed for cursing its name.”

Julian scrubs his hand over his face. “Honestly, that makes sense given how bad things are on the northern continent. Especially compared to this part of the city. I don't blame people for being resentful.”

“Resentment is one thing, this is another.” Garak leans against his desk, casually disengaging the reformed Obsidian Order's listening device with his backside. “Cardassia is facing a time of great change. The old guard, those with status who managed not to be assassinated by the Dominion desire a return to tradition: hierarchy, surveillance, xenophobia, extreme poverty for anyone who isn't a gul or a legate. The service class obviously doesn't agree—and they haven't for some time; don't take _The Never-ending Sacrifice_ at face value. But now they are joined by residents of the outlying continents whose bare-bones autonomy was destroyed by the war. For the first time in several centuries, people on the northern and southern continents are dependent on the State for their most basic needs… To say the State is out of practice in fulfilling those needs would be overly generous.”

Bashir crosses his arms over his chest. “From what I can see, the State is barely trying. And I'm hardly the first person to have noticed.” 

“Therein lies the problem. To the State, inequality is benign, perhaps even healthy. But the revelation of that inequality can spell death.”

“What are you saying? You think there's going to be some kind of resistance movement? An overthrowing of the government?”

“Oh, no. Nothing so… Bajoran, I hope. But there will be change, drastic change, radical change. If the dissidents have their way, in a few decades, the Cardassian dictatorship you learned about at Starfleet Academy will have faded away completely, replaced by that other d-word the Federation holds so dear.”

“Do you really think that's possible? This is Cardassia we're talking about.”

Garak walks to his office window to gaze at the plaza below. “Before you arrived, Dukat's statue in the Imperial Plaza was toppled, melted down, and recast into a statue of Kira Nerys, revolutionary hero. I'd say anything is possible on Cardassia now.”

Julian joins him at the window, squinting at the statue. “That's supposed to be Nerys?”

“As I told you, most of our best people are lost. Including our sculptors. Unfortunately for the aesthetics of our cities.” Garak glances at the timepiece on his desk. “I'm afraid I must be going.” And he is, he truly is. “I have an event I must attend. Something my office planned.” He hesitates. “You're welcome to join me. The company should be interesting.”

–

Garak sets down his hovercar in a dark, secluded alley—much like the one Julian followed Garak's doppelganger down. The memory makes Julian's skin prickle. “Taking me to meet Deep Throat, are you, Garak?” he asks. “Deep Throat was—”

“I know who Deep Throat was,” Garak says.

“Of course. Nixon, Watergate, the Committee to Re-elect the President. I imagine you found that chapter of Earth history rather fascinating.”

Garak unclips his seat belt, opening the the driver side door. “As one might enjoy the first steps of a child. I must say your people have come a long way since then.”

Bashir unhooks himself and gets out the car. Over the hood, he says, “Indeed. The level of underhandedness in the Changeling virus conspiracy would have impressed even Tricky Dick.”

“True.” Garak steps out of the car, locking the doors. “But I was referring to your species having the sense to no longer name important historical figures after crude and anatomically improbable films.”

Julian follows Garak out of the alleyway onto the main street. The neighborhood is not the best, but still standing—an accomplishment on Cardassia. “So, I take there isn't a Cardassian equivalent of Deep Throat?”

“The historical figure, no. The film, however… you might be surprised at the _variety_ permitted by the State.” Garak leads him by the elbow past a newly constructed building and into its courtyard. “Such matters are best discussed elsewhere.”

Julian wonders where exactly that would be, if there are state sponsored smut shops lying in plain sight around the city where Garak has struck up conversations with off-worlders about the cultural magnificence and superiority of Cardassian pornography. The thought simultaneously inspires amusement, horror, and jealousy in Julian, because he likes to think he's the only alien Garak teases with innuendo-laced State indoctrination. If he's been replaced on that front, he may as well just return to DS9.

Then Julian looks up, reads the banner hanging across the courtyard, and realizes that literally anywhere else would be a better place to discuss Cardassian pornography.

_South Capital Orphanage Opening Ceremony!_ the banner reads in bold, bright colors.

Underneath it, children in plain cotton clothes stand about watching the reporters on the opposite end of the courtyard with trepidation, while the the reporters watch them with equal if not greater trepidation, holding on to their PADDs and cameras like Kukalaka in a thunderstorm. Their eyes light up in palpable relief as they spot Garak, who is apparently less frightening than a gaggle of skinny children. (If they only knew…)

“The fourth estate beckons,” Garak says. “Feel free to introduce yourself to the children. Beware: you're probably the first Human they've seen in the flesh.”

“I'll try not to frighten them too badly.”

Garak and Julian take off in opposite directions, Garak strutting into the press area like he owns the place (and the press, which he might), while Julian proceeds cautiously into the children's stronghold.

He holds his hands up where they can see them. “Hello. My name's Julian. I'm one of Garak's friends. He said I could come over here and talk to you.” He kneels on the ground in front of them. “Is that alright?”

The kids don't appear entirely sold on the idea, most staring at him blankly while a few shy ones duck to the back of the group. One girl, perhaps seven years old, approaches Julian slowly but purposefully. About a foot in front of him, she raises her arms and Julian can feel the warm, welcoming, unconditionally-accepting hug of a small child—universal in any species—before she wraps her arms around his neck and yanks his ears down hard.

Julian makes a screeching noise that momentarily distracts the journalists from their interview with Garak.

“You're not a Vorta,” the girl says, removing her hands.

“No, I'm not.” Julian clamps his hands over his aching ears. “That hurt.”

The children giggle and soon crowd in on him, grabbing at various other facial features with grubby, but mercifully gentle hands.

A little girl in a dress strokes Julian's forehead. “You're soft.”

“Thank you.” He grins. “I moisturize.”

“What's that?”

“Well, uh, that's when…” He tries to frame this in term they would understand. “It's when you put a cream or an oil on your skin to keep it soft and healthy.”

“Like when you molt?” another child asks.

“Yes, but humans don't molt. Well, we do, but not like you do.”

A boy of no more than four pinches Julian's left eyebrow. “Why d'you have hair here?”

“It's to keep dirt from falling in my eye,” Julian says while a toddler pulls on his bottom lip. “Humans don't have eyeridges like you do, so we need hair to catch dirt and debris.” Living on a planet that is at present two-thirds debris, the children don't need to ask for a definition of that particular word.

Julian hears footsteps behind him and the children disperse, running back to the safety of their corner. Julian turns his head, expecting to see Garak, but finding…

“Leeta!” he exclaims, getting to his feet.

“Julian!” Leeta brings him in for a hug.

When he pulls away, he asks, “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know, first lady business.”

“Really? On Cardassia?”

“Yeah. I'm leading an aid trip. See those kids over there.” Leeta points to a dozen or so Ferengi youths loitering near the courtyard's entrance. “Those are Ferenginar's very first volunteers.”

“Volunteers? I thought 'anything worth doing is worth doing for money.'”

“That was the old Ferenginar. On the new Ferenginar, 'good deeds are their own reward.' At least, that's what we're trying to teach on this trip.”

“And how's that going so far?”

Leeta smiles and waves at her charges. “I'm about to rip the ungrateful, greedy brats' ears off.”

Julian chuckles. “Give them time. Cardassia has a way of growing on people.”

“And so do Cardassians, I hear.” She winks.

“No one has been 'growing on' me for quite some time—Cardassian or otherwise.” He coughs. “But, er, how's Rom?”

“He's good. Back on Ferenginar with the kids.”

“The kids? I didn't even know you were pregnant.”

“I wasn't.” Leeta presses down on one of the beads on her bracelet, triggering a small, holographic projection of Rom and Leeta surrounded by several Bajoran children and Nog. “We adopted.”

Julian squints at the projection, trying to count the figures. “How many did you—”

“Thirteen.”

“Thirteen! And Rom was okay with that?”

“Not at first. But eventually I convinced him that just because the Nagal Residence has thirty-two bedrooms that doesn't mean we should have thirty-two children.”

“Thirty-two? I can't believe Bajor let you two adopt thirteen with the ban on outworld adoption.”

“The government made an exception for Rom because he's a convert and a former member of the Bajoran militia. And after the Dominion left DS9, I made him get dual citizenship so he couldn't be locked up again… But I have gotten a few strongly worded letters about leaving enough orphans for everyone.” Leeta deactivates the hologram and starts to amble towards the press area.

Julian follows along. “How have the kids taken to Ferenginar? That can't be an easy adjustment. For any of you.”

Leeta sighs. “It's been tough. But being ridiculously wealthy, famous, and powerful helps. So do the trips we make back to Bajor every month to visit the shrine.”

“It seems like you have a little slice of paradise on—”

Now only a few meters in front of them, Garak turns around smiling plasticly. “Ah,” he says loud enough for the assembled reporters to hear, “the First Lady of Ferenginar. How wonderful of you to join us.”

Leeta bows her head. “It's wonderful to be here on such an important occasion.”

“And you—perhaps more than anyone—would understand the importance of the orphanage's opening.” Garak smiles at the crowd. “Leeta and the Grand Nagus have adopted thirteen Bajorans orphaned during the occupation.” A hand raises in the group of reporters. “Yes?”

The reporter carefully averts his eyes from Leeta. “With the orphanage open, will Cardassia permit outworld adoptions?”

“I can't make any definite statements regarding official policy at this time. But I can say that, if we cannot find these lovely children homes on Cardassia, we may be forced to adopt them to outworlders. Even with this new facility, we simply do not have the resources to house this many orphans.”

The press corps glares rather openly at Leeta.

Garak clasps his hands together. “If any of your readers are interested in adopting a war orphan, they can schedule a meeting with the orphanage social worker.” This is dutifully transcribed on the PADD of every reporter in the audience.

Julian shakes his head in disbelief before leaning in to whisper in Leeta's ear, “You realize he's using you.”

“Of course.” Leeta snorts. “He's Garak.”

–

With the press call over and the children back inside for midmeal, Garak has about two hours to graze the catered lunch and enjoy Julian's undivided attention. Providing he can get it.

Once he manages to shake off the last stubborn reporter, Garak turns to find Bashir and Leeta engrossed in conversation, which inspires annoyance rather than jealousy in Garak. Leeta is not a threat. Well, she is a threat. _Everyone_ is a threat. But she's not a threat as a romantic rival. She's a happily married woman sealed in Bajoran monogamy with her loving husband and their numerous children. She's also standing in the way of what Garak wants (Julian alone, in more sense than one), and Garak has gotten to a point where no longer abides those kind of obstructions in his personal life.

Garak puts on the face worthy of a gul greeting a head of state's spouse and introduces himself properly. “Leeta, I'm so pleased you and the Ferengi Volunteer Program could join us. Thank you for volunteering your and their time.”

“You're welcome,” she says. “But it's you I should be thanking. I was having a hell of a time finding relief work opportunities on any of the Dominion-devastated planets until you called.”

“Really? I hadn't heard.” He had.

She shrugs. “I think people were a little suspicious of a Ferengi volunteer group.”

“Suspicious of what exactly?” Julian asks.

“Theft.”

“Ah,” Garak says. “The thought hadn't even occurred to me. But seeing as Cardassia no longer has anything of value left, I don't think we have anything to worry about.”

Leeta chuckles along with him for a moment before her face grows stern. “I'm still going to pat them down before we leave.”

“Oh!” Garak reaches into his pocket, pulling out a microPADD from work. “Before I forget…” He taps a few keystrokes on the PADD. “Here is your updated itinerary.” He hands it to her.

“Updated? I didn't know—” It takes her but a second to read, “ _LEAVE US ALONE_ ,” writ large on the screen. “Right.” She jams the PADD in her purse. “I should let the kids know about the changes.” She walks off to where the Ferengi adolescents are congregated.

Garak grins at Julian. “Lunch?”

A few minutes later, they are squirreled away in a corner with an assortment of cold dishes and glasses filled to the brim with fermented jivar.

Julian sips at his glass cautiously and smacks his lips together. “It's sort of like champagne. The bubbliness. But a bit heavier.”

“And slightly more intoxicating.” 

“It's strange. Cardassian culture evolved lightyears away from Earth, but we still end up drinking the same things at banquets.”

“Keep in mind that a gul wouldn't be caught dead serving jivar at a formal function until quite recently.”

“A change in fashion?”

“Only by necessity. Before the occupation, jivar was considered a peasant's drink, but with kanar growing ever more scarce, you'll see jivar replace it on the menu of invitation-only State events.”

“This isn't open to the public?”

“Hardly. In a neighborhood like this, a free buffet and an open bar would have lines around the block.”

“You could hardly blame people for being hungry.”

“In the Federation, perhaps. But on Cardassia, hunger is a personal moral failing.”

“That's what people believed on Earth for some time. If a person couldn't afford food, it was because they didn't work hard enough or they managed their money poorly.”

“That's where we differ. Here, not having enough food is a fact of life, a duty certain people must perform for the State to function. However, when those people feel hunger… that is when they have failed themselves and Cardassia.”

“Wait, so you're saying if someone is patriotic enough, they won't notice they're starving? That's ridiculous.”

“Hush.” Garak mutters into his tiabo, “And yes.”

“And the children here. Will they be learning to ignore hunger pains for the rest of their lives?”

“Not if all goes according plan.”

“Right.” Julian snickers. “I forgot about your devious and oh-so-transparent scheme for finding adoptive parents. Do you really think that will work?”

“While you were fixing your plate, the orphanage social worker informed me that he's made four appointments with potential adopters since my Q&A went to press.”

“Do you really think those would be the best homes for those kids? People who only want children so filthy outworlders can't have them?”

“If you're concerned about abuse or neglect, you should know that doesn't happen here.”

“I find that hard to believe. Even in the Federation—”

“On Cardassia, if you acknowledge a child as your own, mistreating them would be social suicide, an act of sedition against the State.”

Julian adopts one of those painfully earnest expressions of his. “And if someone doesn't acknowledge their child as their own?”

“Well, then they're allowed significantly more latitude.” Garak downs his jivar.

Julian lays a hand on Garak's shoulder, but says nothing. It's a frighteningly intimate moment: Garak, Julian, and a secret only a handful of living people know about. Strange, Garak counts himself lucky that Julian finds out this way, from Garak, rather than in a patient history from Ezri Dax or over dinner with his genetically-enhanced friends.

The sympathy is profound, pouring from Julian's touch in his own unique way. Like they're back in sickbay all those years ago, Garak gripping Julian's hand as if it's his sole lifeline in the midst of withdrawal. It was. It truly was. He wouldn't have made it through the implant's deterioration without Julian Bashir, just as he wouldn't have made it through his exile on Deep Space Nine without him. Or, if he is to be entirely honest with himself, would he have gotten through the first few months of Cardassia's recovery without the inkling that Julian's time with Dax and Starfleet would come to an end, the faintest hope that he would one day be having lunch with him again. Just as they are now.

After a lifetime of disappointment, perhaps hope isn't the fool's errand he was led to believe.

Across the courtyard, a camera flashes, capturing the moment for eternity while simultaneous shattering it as Julian removes his hand.

“I forgot how scandalous public shoulder touching is here,” Julian says. “I hope that picture doesn't land you in hot water.”

“I've been in hotter,” Garak drawls.

“No. I suppose you have. I guess after an exile as long as yours, the consequences of a steamy, public affair with a human Starfleet officer would seem small.”

“I don't foresee any negative consequences. A gul is allowed certain extravagances forbidden to the general public.”

“And that includes me? No wonder I haven't had much luck with the general public. I'm entirely off-limits.”

“Doubly so with the kind of stories the gossip columnists are spinning about us. I am apparently violently jealous of anyone who dares look at you.”

“Hold on. There's gossip columns? On Cardassia? About us? That's allowed?”

“Oh, yes. Gul gossip is an industry to itself.”

“And what exactly have they been publishing about us?”

“I haven't been able to keep up with all the rumors, but from what I last read, we have been seeing each other on and off for the past seven years, our lovers' spats on DS9 were something of legend, and Captain Sisko once told you to give me up, so you punched him in the jaw.”

Julian guffaws. “That's rich. I don't think I would've made it off the station alive if I socked the Emissary.”

“Oh, that's another thing. We were also terribly persecuted by the Bajorans on the station whose primitive religion clings on to anachronistic prejudices against same-gender relationships.”

“Well, then I suppose I better tell Vedek Luyen she needs to divorce her wife.”

Garak tuts. “Their children will be devastated.”

“Not to mention their grandchildren.”

“Poor dears. They'll have to celebrate the Festival of the Elders separately.”

“If only their grandmothers' love could withstand oppression and triumph over adversity as ours has.”

“If only.”

–

After a long Cardassian lunch, everyone files into the center of the courtyard, taking seats in front of a small, slightly raised stage. The press stand looming in the back while Garak, Julian, Leeta, and the other adults sit in folding chairs laid out in rows. The children are all plopped down on the ground in front of the stage, fidgeting in excitement.

Without any introduction, a masked figure emerges from behind the curtain and runs at full speed to the edge of the stage. With no sign of the performer slowing or stopping, the children on the ground part like the Red Sea to get out of their path. But at the very last moment, right before the masked figure steps off the stage and into the audience, they run smack dab into an invisible wall. The performer freezes in shock for a moment before falling flat on their back. The children sit up on their haunches to see if they're okay. The performer takes a deep breath, jumps to their feet, and bows causing the orphans to erupt in giggles and applause.

The performer unties the mask, revealing a young Trill woman—a blonde with all the facial features of someone with Gandres. If Julian's not mistaken, she must be Nulat, Lenara Kahn's sister. It has to be; how many other Trill women with Gandres are touring the quadrant as pseudo-mimes?

Well, whoever she is, she's one of the more magnetic performers Julian has seen outside of a holosuite. In her hour set, she performs solo, but the stage is filled with the characters she brings to life—often five or six interacting at a time—and later the orphans whom she gives an impromptu rian'koran lesson. After the show has ended, Julian and Garak stay behind to watch her play with the kids, showing them how to make space objects with dimension and heft. The little girl who grabbed Julian's ears earlier appears to be quite a natural.

“You know,” Julian murmurs to Garak, “I always got the impression that Cardassians were cultural narcissists who wouldn't expose their children to foreign ideas and art. Or anything that would interfere with their indoctrination to the State.”

“In years past, yes,” Garak says. “But following the occupation, Cardassians can no longer afford to be as isolated as we once were. Being a strong, independent power in the quadrant granted us the luxury of cultural narcissism. Now that our survival as a species depends largely on the benevolence of outworlders, we must learn to meet other cultures at least halfway.”

“Hence the Federation Artists Corps' appearance.”

“Precisely. And I also know from personal experience that sharing elements of one's culture with someone can result in a profound and invaluable relationship.”

Julian's human reflexes want his hand to rest on Garak's shoulder, solidifying another moment of emotional intimacy between them—two in one day is a record outside a Dominion prison camp—but Julian's human brain thinks the better of performing such a romantic Cardassian gesture in public again—this time in front of dozens of children. (Julian's superior mutant compartmentalization abilities allow him to file away for later the realization that he _would_ perform such a romantic Cardassian gesture in private.) Julian settles for laying his hand on the small of Garak's back—a subtly intimate gesture by human accounts, but entirely platonic on Cardassia.

He keeps his hand there, forgetting to remove it until the social worker comes to shepherd the orphans back inside, giving Julian the chance to speak to the artist who may or may not be Nulat. He strides toward her, a hand outstretched.

“Dr. Julian Bashir, volunteer relief corps.”

She shakes his hand. “Nulat Otner, Federation Artists Corps.”

Aha. “Pleasure to meet you. I must say, Lenara's descriptions of your work hardly live up to the real thing.”

“You know my sister?”

“Yes. I was stationed at Deep Space Nine when—”

Nulat clucks her tongue, pointing at Julian. “I gotcha.”

“I wouldn't say Lenara and I are particularly close, but we had dinner once—well, twice—and she had only the most glowing things to say about you and your work. You were brilliant, by the way. I don't have much basis for comparison—I didn't know rian'koran even existed before a few months ago—but from an outsider's perspective, you were wonderful.”

“Thanks. I'll be here all month.”

“That's classic! Very 20th century human comedian.”

“Thanks. But I will actually be here all month.”

“Oh! Really? I thought the Corps only did long-term engagements with groups of seven or more volunteers.”

“Usually. But I was the only person brave or stupid enough to agree to come here.”

“I can't blame your fellow corpsmen for being scared away. Cardassian has a rather long history of executing artists who disrupt the status quo.”

Nulat shrugs. “I'm not scared.”

“You're very unflappable for a Trill.”

“Must be the extra chromosome.”

“About that… Could we talk? While you're here? About, erm… Not as a doctor, obviously, but as someone who was a long time ago perhaps someone who might have been… You see, my parents… they _fixed_ me. Not fixed me. Not like I was or you are—”

“They broke you?”

“A little bit. Yes.” He takes a breath. “I have friends who are genetically enhanced, but I don't have anyone who knows what it's like for people to give up on them.”

“Lenara told you about the Symbiosis Commission.”

“Yes. I'm sorry if that's a sore subject.”

“It's okay. I could use someone to talk about it with.”

“Really? That would be—I would like that. Where are you staying?”

“Volunteer dorms. I was in the VIP suite near the plaza, but some first lady bumped me.”

“Well, I guess I'll see you around then. It was lovely meeting you.”

“You, too.”

Julian walks back over to Garak, smiling at the ground the whole way.

“Make a new friend?” Garak asks.

“You know, I think I might've.” Julian jams his hands in his pockets. “Where to now?”

“Dinner?”

“I could eat again. I swear, your midmeal periods are so long here that I'm hungry again by the end of them.”

“Good. I have reservations at a place I know you'll enjoy.”

–

“What I don't understand,” Julian says, drudging up the rest of his yamok sauce with a piece of crusty bread, “is how you three got off the institute, into a secure vessel, and made your way to Cardassia.”

Patrick swallows his bite of zabo meat. “That's a stupid question.”

“Again? Security fell for your Starfleet admiral disguise _twice_?”

“No.”

Julian sighs. “Good. I put out a bulletin specifically warning about you—”

“We were ensigns this time,” Patrick adds.

Julian drops his bread to his plate, splattering his shirt with sauce. “You three are impossible.”

“Here.” Garak dabs at Julian's shirt with a cloth napkin. “If you don't get this out now, the oil will stain.”

Julian leans back allowing Garak to work out the sauce. “Thanks.”

“He's not doing it for you. Don't thank him,” Jack says.

Lauren smirks. “He's got his own perverse reasons for rubbing you down.”

Garak glares at them, suddenly regretting his decision to bring Bashir here. After Jack deciding to go on a strange, philosophical diatribe at their picnic rather than spilling all he's learned about Garak, he thought he could trust his consultants to have a meal with Bashir and not expose the extent of Garak's feelings and intentions. Apparently, he was wrong.

“And what would that be?” Julian asks.

Patrick chuckles behind his hand. “Garak loves…” This is the end. Or the beginning, depending on how Bashir responds. “…your shirt.” Or neither.

Then why all the build-up? Why the carefully chosen words? Why…

Oh, for the love of Cardassia. They were _teasing_ Garak. Like they were his friends or something. They would never tell Julian how Garak feels in deference to their friendship, but they would skirt around the issue to get a rise out of Garak in some exotic, human affection ritual. 

They care about him.

Garak grimaces at the warm, bubbling feeling in his chest that this realization elicits.

“Really? I thought you hated all my off-duty clothes,” Julian says to Garak.

“He does,” Lauren says. “That's why he's so invested in preserving the one shirt he does like.”

Julian tut-tuts. “Their truly is no end to your deviousness.”

Garak sets his napkin back on the table. “I've been conspiring against you and your dubious fashion sense for years. I'm surprised it took you this long to notice.” He sips at his tea. “Did you honestly think the station laundry misplaced all your beachwear after your trip to Risa?”

Bashir's eyes go wide. “That was you? How? What did you do—stake out my laundry chute overnight?”

“Nothing so labor intensive. I merely had a pleasant chat with the laundry manager, who after reviewing a few photographs I had taken of him cavorting with his wife's cousin, agreed that your hideous velour monstrosity of a vacation wardrobe needed to die.”

“I liked those clothes!”

“And I like you. I couldn't very well sit by and do nothing as you sullied your reputation one clashing ensemble at a time.”

“You went through all that trouble to make little old me look presentable?” Julian presses a hand to his heart. “I'm touched.”

“Well, I do what I can. Although, I must admit, my reasoning was not entirely unselfish. I didn't go to lunch with you for all those years to look at something unpleasant.” Garak believes this is human flirting.

Patrick and Lauren exchange looks across the table before yawning widely in unison. “I think I'm going to call it a night,” Lauren says, standing up.

“Me, too,” Patrick says.

They stare at Jack expectantly. “Good night,” he says. They keep staring. He crosses his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes, and opens his mouth in a weak imitation of a yawn. “I've suddenly overcome the mania that has disrupted my sleep for the past thirty years. I should get to bed.” He gets up, pushing in his chair.

“Are you sure you don't want to stay for after-dinner drinks?” Garak asks, communicating subtly with the tilt of his head that if any of the three of them stay a moment longer, he will make their lives extremely unpleasant for at least a few days.

Patrick slides out of his chair, shaking his head. “No, thank you.”

“Good night then.”

His consultants turn to leave the dining room, but stop when Julian says, “Actually, I think I'll take a raincheck on drinks, as well. I've already had enough jivar today to give me cottonmouth tomorrow morning.” He pushes out his chair, standing with a yawn. “Dinner was lovely. Thank you all.”

Garak stands. “It was our pleasure. Do you need a ride home?”

“Yes, but I don't think you're in any condition to drive.” He gestures to the empty flute of jivar in front of Garak's place-setting. “I'll be fine walking.”

“Not at this hour. An unescorted human would breed terrible suspicion this time of night.” He pauses. “Let me walk you home.”

“Are you sure?” Bashir asks. “I don't want to put you out.”

“Nonsense. And, besides, having to bail you out of jail again would put me out far more than an evening stroll ever could.”

“I guess it's settled then.” He smiles and they head out of the dining room, stopping so Julian can say goodbye to Lauren, Patrick, and Jack, who are all lined up in the hallway watching the proceedings with mild interest. “Goodnight.” He pecks Lauren's right cheek and then Patrick's left with a murmured, “Goodnight.” He stops at Jack, appearing entirely uncertain of what form of affection he's willing to give that Jack would be willing to receive.

Jack throws up a mock-salute. “Goodnight, sir.”

Julian rolls his eyes and reciprocates. “At ease, ensign. And goodnight.”

Goodbyes finished, Garak and Julian make their way to the door, where says, “Before we go, I just wanted to say, I had a truly fantastic time today.” He claps his hand on Garak's shoulder, his thumb resting on Garak's collar bone. “It's been one of the better days I've had in a long time.”

“Likewise,” Garak says huskily.

Julian's lips twitch into a grin as he removes his hand. “Shall we then?”

“We shall.” Garak opens the door, eager for a long walk in the Cardassian moonlight with the person he desires fully—something he never thought he'd be able to do even before his exile. He finds that their way out the door is obstructed in the form of a person loitering on the stoop.

Sarina Douglas.

If Cardassians believed in reincarnation, Garak would wonder what truly heinous crime he committed in a past life to deserve this. (He already knows what he's done in this life to deserve it.)

“Sarina,” Julian gasps.

Sarina clutches her luggage handles, her hands turning white. “Julian.”

Jack, Patrick, and Lauren poke their heads into the foyer, their genetically enhanced hearing alerting them to her presence.

“Sarina,” Jack murmurs… quieter than Garak has ever heard him.

“Jack.” She nods.

“What are you doing here?” Patrick asks.

“When I heard you were here, I had to come see you.”

“You came back,” Julian says.

“I came back for you,” she says, staring past Julian's shoulder at her old friends. “For all of you,” she quickly adds.

Patrick, Lauren, and Jack envelop her in a mutant group hug, which Julian taps into like an extra puzzle piece.

An extra puzzle piece that none-too-subtly smells Sarina's hair.

–

He wakes Alexander on his way to bed. “Sorry,” Julian murmurs, toeing out of his shoes.

“What time is it?” Alexander asks groggily.

“Erm.” He looks at the chronometer on their shared dresser. “A little bit after twenty-three hundred.”

“Oh. You're out late.”

“Yeah. I had dinner with Garak and the others.”

Alexander shifts in his bunk. “Did she mention me at all?”

“No.” Julian takes off his trousers, throwing them in the corner with the rest of his dirty laundry. “You didn't come up.” He flops down onto his bunk. “How'd your day go?”

“Okay. You?”

“Fantastic, actually. Besides nearly starting an interplanetary scandal in the middle of Garak's office, I'd say I had a pretty good day. It didn't exactly end how I thought it would, but it was good. Great even.”

“How did you think it would end?”

“Er… I don't know. I just didn't expect to see Sarina again.”

“Sarina? Douglas?”

“Yeah. Amazing, isn't it?”

“I guess.”

“I mean, maybe this is my chance. Ezri had one of her old girlfriends come back out of nowhere and now they're playing house. This might be my turn.”

–

“I'm afraid the door doesn't lock,” Garak says.

“That's alright.” Sarina sets her bags on the foot of the guest room's bed. “I'm still not used to having locks myself.” She sits down, bouncing on the mattress slightly, testing its firmness. “Thank you for finding a room for me, especially on such short notice.”

“It's nothing.” Garak leans against the doorframe. “Although, I do find it strange that someone with your intellect and foresight would forget to find accommodations for the night. That is, unless she planned on sharing someone's bed.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“In my line of work, one learns to see through people.”

“Then you know why I'm here.”

“I have a few theories.”

“When people develop theories about people like me, they're usually wrong.” Her hands clench the end of the mattress. “In the interest of clarity, I'm not here to interfere with what you're doing with Jack and Patrick and Lauren. I want in.”

“In?”

“I want to work and live here with them.”

“And that's all you want?

“What more could I want? They're my family.”

“And Bashir?”

She inhales deeply. “I hope that, in time, he'll come to see me as something more than a prize he's earned. And that you'll realize I'm not a threat. Even though you think everyone is a threat.”

“You have high hopes.”

She grins. “That's at least one thing we have in common.”

Garak's emergency comm chirps in his pocket. “Excuse me.” He taps the comm. “Garak here… I see…. Alert the first lady of Ferenginar that her trip to the northern continent is canceled. I'll find something for her to do in the city tomorrow…. Yes… No… Good. Garak out.” Garak slips his comm back into his pocket and massages his temples.

“Is something wrong?” Sarina asks.

“Quite. One of the imperial listening stations on the northern continent has gone offline.”

“What does that mean?”

“The operatives tending to that station are dead. Or worse.”

“What's worse than dead?”

“On Cardassia? Betraying the state.”

She grips her comforter so tight her fingers turn white. “It's beginning, isn't it?”

“You've chosen a lovely time to visit our fair planet.”

“I knew the risks.”

“Of course.” Garak nods. “I'd prefer if you kept the statistical probabilities to yourself. I'd like to maintain some semblance of optimism.”


	13. Give Life's Little Guy Some Ink and When it Dries...

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Jake asks.

“Are you sure _you_ wanna do this?” Ezri responds.

“Yeah.”

“Then so am I.”

Jake turns on his audio recorder.

–

_A few months ago, Lieutenant Ezri Dax had a hard time remembering who she was: what foods she liked, what gender she was, what events she had lived herself or merely remembered through her symbiont. But now Dax finds herself filled with absolute certainty—a first since she has been joined._

_“The Symbiosis Commission is lying to us,” she says, pulling at a loose thread on the arm of her chair. “They're lying to all of us.”_

_I lean closer. “What have they been lying about?”_

_“Everything.”_

_“Could you be more specific?” As the son of an old friend, I can get away with that kind of cheek in an interview with Dax._

_“Well, to start with, they lied to the Federation about the symbionts.”_

_That's an old secret, one most Federation citizens are aware of. I was only twelve at the time, but I still remember watching Grenfar Jarvis' evening holo-report on the scandal and turning to my father to ask, “Does this mean Curzon has a worm inside him?”_

_My father, shocked by the news, gritted his teeth. “We'll have to ask him.”_

_“Ben was hurt,” Ezri says. “It's understandable. He and I—he and Curzon were very close. The Dax symbiont was such a huge part of who Curzon was—who I am—that Ben felt a little betrayed that I kept it secret from him. Like I didn't trust him.”_

_“Did you?” I ask._

_“Trust him? Absolutely, with my life. On several occasions.”_

_“Then why keep Dax a secret?”_

_“At the time, Curzon believed he had to for the good of the symbiont population. The Symbiosis Commission warned all ambassadors that the revelation of our joined nature would result in the Federation doing horrific medical experiments on us and kidnapping the symbionts. And Curzon believed them.”_

_“But you don't?”_

_“Obviously; I mean that's not what happened when the Federation found out, but if you mean do I doubt the Symbiosis Commission's reasoning for maintaining secrecy? Then, yes, I do… I think they kept joinings a secret from the Federation so they could get away with murder.”_

_“Figuratively?”_

_She nods. “And literally.”_

–

Lenara traces her fingertips along the spots on Ezri's temple. “How are the interviews going?”

“Good. I may not be too eloquent a speaker, but Jake is a damned good reporter. I'm sure he'll throw something interesting together out of my incoherent ramblings.” Ezri looks up, keeping her head rested on Lenara's chest. “I'm joking. I've made every effort to be coherent. Profound, even.”

“I'm sure you have. As I recall, Curzon was quite the orator.”

“And so was Audrid. Somehow, I don't think that skill got passed down.”

“I don't know how much of public-speaking is something you can learn and how much of it is innate. I've put hours into perfecting my speaking for conferences and symposia, but I'll never be as at ease as Nulat is.”

“How is Nulat, by the way?”

“Good. Apparently, she's been chosen to go on some special, solo mission for the Fed Artists Corps.”

“Where to?”

“She wouldn't say. Which leads me to believe that her mission is highly secret or highly dangerous. Or both.”

“What could be more dangerous than Romulus?”

“I don't know. Perhaps they're sending her through the wormhole to perform for the Great Link.”

Ezri snorts. “Have her say hi to Odo for me.”

The door chimes. On the sofa, Ezri and Lenara pull apart. “Come,” Lenara says.

Tsorka Ven and Priyoon Kar, one of the oldest reassociated couples in the resistance, step inside Dax's quarters. "I hope we're not interrupting anything," Priyoon says.

"Oh, no," Ezri says. "We were just… lounging."

"Good."

"Was there something you wanted to discuss?" Lenara asks.

"Yes…"

"Go right ahead."

"Well…" Tsorka drawls.

"You know we've been getting on in the years,” Priyoon says. “Don't tell my grandchildren this, but I don't know how much longer I have left. I'm happy I can spend my last years with people who support me and Tsorka, but I am a bit concerned." She wrings her hands.

"About what?" Ezri asks.

"Well, I… I'm at peace with dying; this won't be the first time I've done it. But I'd feel better knowing that when I go, my symbiont won't be going with me."

Her wife grips her wrist. "And I'd feel better knowing that maybe one day, we could be together again."

“We know you have the donor registry and new hosts waiting, but we have some doubts about how…” Priyoon trails off.

“Uh, there's a reason why the Symbiosis Commission had Guardians supervise joinings.”

Ezri nods. “And you're concerned that because we don't have any Guardians, the joining of the Kar symbiont to its next host won't be successful?”

“Yes,” Priyoon says.

“I understand your concern,” Lenara says. “We are working our very best in securing Guardians. In the mean time, however, I'd like to point out that there is precedent of successful joinings occurring without the supervision of the Guardians and the Symbiosis Commission.” She smiles at Ezri.

“I see,” Tsorka says.

Priyoon's full lips thin into a line. “Thank you.”

They shuffle out of Dax's quarters without saying goodbye.

“Well.” Ezri claps Lenara's shoulder. “They seemed comforted.”

“Next time, I'll leave the bereavement counseling to the professional.”

“I don't know what I could've said that would've been much better. The truth doesn't leave much room for comfort: we don't have any Guardians or any plan for recruiting them, and we're basically staking the future of our symbionts on the hope that the joinings we orchestrate based on guesswork go as well as mine. And that's setting the bar fairly low, to be quite honest.”

“We've done all we can,” Lenara says. “We can't get in contact with any living Guardians, Timor died, and Vic—the closest thing we have—has all the potential but none of the training… and is also a hologram. So, even if we did manage to track down some hyper-telepath to play guru, we couldn't rely on Vic being our sole Guardian because—”

“I don't think we'd have to.”

“What?”

“Well, if we found a hyper-telepath, logically speaking, he'd be able to identify telepaths in our ranks. We'd have an entire class of future Guardians.”

“Yes. _If_ we found a hyper-telepath, which is highly unlikely given that the most powerful telepaths either live as hermits, try to take over the galaxy, or—”

“Hijack the Enterprise because God told them to.”

“Exact—no. You're not thinking…”

“I am thinking.”

“Sybok is dangerous. The people he's with are dangerous.”

“They're our only chance.”

Lenara pinches the bridge of her nose. “I know. And so will Sybok. That's what worries me. I don't want you or our people any more indebted to these people than we already are. Who knows what kind of demands they'll make this time?”

–

_Nine years after the Odan symbiont’s emergency joining to Commander William T. Riker revealed the Trill's joined nature to the Federation, much regarding symbiosis culture remains a mystery to offworlders. So much so that non-Trill must be briefed on specific taboos before marrying a joined Trill._

_“Once I accepted Jadzia's proposal,” Ambassador Worf explains to me over subspace, “she informed me that were she to die, I would not be able to resume our relationship with Dax's next host, because to do so would be considered 'reassociation,' an act deemed most dishonorable amongst Trill.”_

_For the Trill, the purpose of symbiosis is the symbiont's accumulation of several lifetimes of experience through its hosts. As the vast majority of Trill and the Symbiosis Commission believe, reassociation threatens the diversity of the symbiont's experiences by returning to the spouse of a past host._

_“They say we're just reliving the past,” Priyoon Kar says, holding the hand of Tsorka Ven—her spouse of two lifetimes. “I like to think that the act of reassociation is one of the most unique and rewarding experiences a host can leave their symbiont.”_

_Kar would know—two of her fourteen past hosts have reassociated._

_“My third host, Kabraya, was a Gheryzanit. **[Editor's note: a what?]** Back in those times, we were still practicing many of our traditions that the Symbiosis Commission outlawed. In secret, of course. That's how I was able to remarry my first wife, Eura Pren. We had many happy years together, but when I died, I was joined with a Rylanit who couldn't fathom something as unnatural as reassociation. He reported Eura to the Symbiosis Commission._

_“At that time, Trill wasn't warp-capable, so she was exiled to the fifth moon. Like a war criminal._

_“She didn't last long there and when she died, Pren died with her.”_

_Pren was not the last symbiont to die in exile. While the Symbiosis Commission no longer transports reassociated Trills to the fifth moon for life, Trill society remains so hostile toward reassociation that Trill who choose to continue relationships from their former hosts have little choice but to leave the homeworld. Typically, the Symbiosis Commission will go to extreme lengths to recover a symbiont from a host who has died far from Trill, ensuring that the symbiont will live on in a new host. However, the Symbiosis Commission has made no such effort to prevent the deaths of symbionts joined to Trill banished for reassociation. Those symbionts are essentially blacklisted from being joined again—a death sentence._

–

T'Pring steeples her fingers just below her chin. “I cannot guarantee that Sybok is capable of what you ask of him.”

Ezri rests her chin on her fists. “If he doesn't deliver, then neither do we.”

T'Pring bows her head. “If you do not 'deliver,' then I shall make known the sentiments you harbor regarding the death of Jadzia Dax.”

“Actually, I don't think you will.”

T'Pring raises an eyebrow.

“I've had a little time to think about why exactly you'd blackmail me—of all people—into helping you fight a revolution on Vulcan. I don't have any skills you'd need, I have all the interplanetary influence of Lysia the jumja vendor. Why pick me when Kira is down the corridor brimming with revolutionary know-how and countless horrific secrets from the Occupation? Then I realized, you don't need _me_ , you need who I will become.” Ezri leans back in her chair. “Once we win—and we will be winning—I'll be someone with at least a fair amount of influence. Someone you could use. But if we don't win—and we won't without your help—I'm useless to you. Just another staff officer with a worm in her belly.

“You need us to be successful. I need us to be successful. So let's cut the cloak-and-dagger, Romulan blackmail _pekh_ and get down to business.”

T'Pring's head tilts fifteen degrees to the right. “Your logic is flawless.”

–

_“Most humans aren't aware of how close Earth came to losing their Federation membership,” says Fareenik Vahl, a University of Trill legal scholar in exile. “I bring up the subject as a bit of trivia at cocktail parties, and my human companions almost always express total ignorance of Ulin Harik's fateful vacation to Northern California and how that very nearly spelled the end of Earth's membership in the Federation._

_“During the legislative recess of spring 2289, Ulin Harik attempted to take a guided tour of the Winchester Mystery House. When she found that the tour would not accommodate her wheelchair, she filed an official complaint which resulted in the revelation that sites of historical significance are exempt from accessibility laws. A bit of a polemicist, Harik decided to confront this policy by filing a request for the revocation of Earth's Federation membership on the basis of anti-disability discrimination, which, like caste discrimination, is a legal barrier to Federation membership. The matter went to a vote, and by the word of the law, the Federation congress had little choice but to approve the request. The congressional chair—a human—granted Earth a sixty day amnesty period to correct the policy before the membership revocation would take effect. If not for that, Earth would no longer be a member of the Federation.” **[Editor's note: while this is an interesting historical anecdote, it reads a little long.**_

_**Author's note: I'm trying to add color.** _

_**Editor's note: I know and you are, but I think the pace of Fareenik's story interrupts the forward thrust of your polemic.** _

_**Author's note: …Kasidy, have you been reading my journalism books?]** _

_At present, Trill abets a similar form of discrimination that Federation Artist Corpsmember Nulat Otner is all too familiar with._

_“I put in an application for the initiate program right after I graduated,” says Otner, over subspace relay from Cardassia, where she is working with the Federation Artists Corps. “The Commission returned my application the next day with a big red stamp saying, 'Application doesn't merit consideration.'”_

_“Did they give you a reason why?” I ask._

_“No, but I could guess why.”_

_Like 1 in 700 Trill, Nulat Otner has Gandres Syndrome, a developmental disability that stunts growth and impairs cognition. Objectively, it is difficult to determine whether or not this was the deciding factor in the Symbiosis Commission's dismissal of Otner's application. Without the data made publicly available by the Symbiosis Commission, it is also difficult to determine if the rejection of applicants based on disability is standard procedure. The veil of secrecy surrounding the Symbiosis Commission, the initiate program, and joinings in general, acts as a barrier to the kind of transparency expected of Federation institutions. While Starfleet Academy and the Vulcan seek annually publish admission statistics, which are reviewed by independent advocacy groups to safeguard for discrimination, similar data from the Trill initiate program remains private._

_What exactly is the Symbiosis Commission hiding?_

_As it turns out, quite a lot._

–

Iruk Gatun trembles in front of Sybok, eyeing him with dilated pupils. Agreeing to see him took no small amount of bravery, but she's having trouble summoning it right this moment.

Ezri smiles at her. “You'll do fine. This won't hurt a bit.”

Iruk nods and squeezes her eyes shut, wincing. She jumps as Sybok cups her cheek, but it's over almost as soon as it began.

“She has potential,” Sybok says, taking away his hand.

“Good. That's great.” Ezri wraps an arm around the Iruk's shivering shoulders, guiding her away from Sybok and onto the couch, where Lenara presses a steaming cup of herbal tea into her hand.

“Sometimes I forget why we're not exactly known for our bravery in the face of danger,” Ezri whispers into Lenara's ear as they walk back to Sybok' “testing area.” (In actuality: the kitchenette.)

“You can hardly blame us,” Lenara says. “With a parasite-based ecosystem, Trill was never the ideal breeding ground for a fight-or-flight instinct.”

“I'm not knocking it. I'd take isoboramine over adrenaline any day.”

“I'm ready for the next reading,” Sybok says.

“Good.” Ezri nods at the next Trill in line—a gangly adolescent on the station without his parents' permission—who steps forward, perspiring heavily. “Let's hope this one goes as well as the first.”

The ritual repeats: Galen Kivek closes his sweaty eyelids, Sybok cups his cheek, and… the tea kettle shatters into a thousand pieces, spraying the coffee table with ceramic shards and hot tea.

Sybok's hand flies from Galen's face as if scalded by his skin.

“What's wrong?” Lenara asks. She gets only heavy-breathing (from Sybok) and whimpering (from Galen) as a response.

T'Pring steps out of the corner where she'd been watching the proceedings, and says something in Vulcan.

“ _Pash-yel_ ,” Sybok responds in a growl.

“Fascinating,” T'Pring says. “The boy is psi-negative.”

“So, he's not a telepath?” Lenara asks.

“No, he is psi-negative.”

“What does that mean?” Ezri asks. “I've been studying how brains work my entire life I've never heard someone be called, 'psi-negative.' 'Psi-null,' yes. But not psi-negative.”

“Understandably. Negative telepathy lies in the domain of history, not contemporary psychiatry. After today, I suppose the curriculum should be revised,” T'Pring says. “Since you know so much of telepathy already, the concept should not be difficult to explain. You know, for instance, that unspoken thoughts and emotions are transmitted across the psionic field like light through the electromagnetic field, and that telepaths are able to perceive those disruptions in the psionic field by transmitting a moldable signal that vibrates at the frequency of the psionic field, acting like a form of sonar. You know, then, that the psi-null are incapable of transmitting moldable signals into the field and thus cannot read the thoughts and emotions of others.

“Psi-negatives are likewise unable to perceive the thoughts and emotions of others, but, in contrast, because they transmit a signal that prevents the passage of telepaths' moldable signals through the psionic field, causing them instead to rebound on the telepath.”

“Hence the exploding tea kettle,” Ezri says.

“Exactly. Psi-negatives are incredibly irritating to telepaths, which is why the Vulcan species rid itself of negative telepathy before the age of Surak.”

“How?”

“We drowned the psi-negative children and murdered their families. Within twelve generations, the menace was eradicated.” Lenara grabs Galen by the shoulders, dragging him away from Sybok. “Until today, we were not aware psi-negatives existed in other species.”

“What does that mean?” Ezri asks. “Is he just an anomaly or does this tell us something about Trill?”

“I do not know.” T'Pring looks at Sybok. “We will have to try more tests.”

–

_Deep in the Caves of Mak'ala, a group of telepathic Trill known as Guardians tend to the milky pools where symbionts breed and grow before being joined to a host. Guardians have held this sacred duty for as long as anyone can remember, living underground in almost total seclusion._

_“My sister Chanu was accepted into the Guardian apprentice program when she was sixteen years old,” Avin Xostro, 82, recalls. “None of us were exactly surprised. Even growing up, we all knew that Chanu was different, that she had a gift. Still, my parents were extremely proud. Although, at the same time, they seemed… sad. As if they knew.” Xostro stares off into the distance. “But I suppose we all knew one way or another.”_

_He coughs._

_“When she left for the program, we held this huge party, invited everyone we knew, and they all came, as if… as if to say goodbye. Not, 'I will see you soon' goodbye, but forever goodbye. Nobody asked when Chanu would be home to visit next. No one brought any gifts. I guess they knew she wouldn't be needing them… I tried to keep in touch with her over the years. A vidcall here, a letter there. Then one day she stopped answering my vidcalls. A few months later she stopped responding to my letters. My friends told me this was normal, that Chanu grew as reclusive as the other Guardians. But I kept writing. I never stopped.”_

_Xostro furrows his brow._

_“For forty years, I wrote letters to a dead woman, and no one—no one…” He sobs. “I'm sorry. I can't.”_

_Chanu Xostro is one of many Guardians to sever contact with their families entirely unannounced after serving in the Caves of Mak'ala for decades. Like Avin, most family members believed this was the result of the reclusive nature of Guardian culture, but the recent death of a Guardian on Deep Space Nine suggests that the truth is far more sinister._

_On the sixth day of the Bajoran month of Hikar, Timor Patrel arrived on Deep Space Nine via transport shuttle. He collapsed almost as soon as he walked on board. A day later, he was dead._

_According to the station's acting chief medical officer, prolonged exposure to leurosulphine, a toxic chemical found solely in igneous rocks on the Trill homeworld, caused Timor's death. The Caves of Mak'ala, the place where Timor Patrel lived and worked for the past twenty-four years, are formed from igneous rock._

_“The Caves are poison,” Ezri Dax says. “Being down there for so long is what killed him. And the Symbiosis Commission let it happen.”_

_“Are you certain?” I ask. “That's a very serious accusation to be lobbing.”_

_“I know, Jake. I was there. Audrid was there.” She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. “When Audrid Dax was head of the Commission, she ordered a study on the blight shortening the lifespans of the Guardians. The results found that long-term exposure to toxins in the Caves of Mak'ala was poisoning the Guardians to death. Audrid chose to keep that a secret, known only to the head of the Commission. Every Commissioner since her has decided to do the same, allowing countless Guardians to work themselves to death.”_

_“You've been joined to the Dax symbiont for over a year. Why go public with this information now?”_

_“Because I didn't remember until Timor came to the station; Audrid blocked the memories from the symbiont before she died. I guess she knew that if one of Dax's hosts found out, we would do something about it.”_

_“And you are.”_

_“I am.”_

–

Broken objects litter the floor of the Vulcans' quarters, surrounding Sybok in a sea of glass shards and ripped fabric. He stands panting and baring his teeth like a wild sehlat on the hunt. The Trill cower appropriately in the corner.

Ezri lowers the PADD she was using to record results (and as a makeshift shield). “So, that was eight positives, zero nulls, and eight negatives?”

“ _Ha_ ,” Sybok growls.

“Half-telepathic, half-not,” Ezri says. “That squares with what we know about half the Trill population being capable of joining.”

“After all we've seen,” Lenara says, “I can't say I'm surprised that the Symbiosis Commission is killing off the surplus population of Trill capable of joining by sticking them in the Caves of Mak'ala.”

Ezri shakes her head. “As frighteningly believable as that sounds, I don't think that's what's going on. When Jadzia and I entered Starfleet, we were both tested for telepathic abilities and both of us came up psi-null. We were tested again after being joined to Dax, and still null.”

“I would not trust Starfleet's opinion on your telepathic abilities,” T'Pring says. “There is much they do not know.”

Sybok stands up straight, wiping sweat from his brow. “And the telepaths they employ are little more than amateurs in the infancy of their capabilities.”

“I'm sure your brother would be very pleased to hear that,” Ezri says.

“Spock is a Vulcan,” T'Pring says. “He is pleased with nothing but himself and his former crewmates.”

“Spock has greater emotional depth than you could ever conceive,” Sybok responds.

“Do not mistake emotional unavailability for depth.”

“Okay!” Ezri says. “Clearly we all have some unresolved issues regarding Spock, but can we push those to the side for a minute? We need to get a better handle on what these readings mean. I think the best way we can understand how psi-ratings work in unjoined Trill is to look at the psi-rating of a joined Trill. Since you don't find Starfleet's methods reliable, why don't you do a reading of me?”

“Very well,” Sybok says. He closes his eyes. The air crackles with static electricity. He smiles. “Starfleet was correct; Ezri Dax is psi-null.”

“Then that means none of the Trill we tested today can be joined,” Ezri says.

“I'm not finished. The symbiont Dax is psi-positive. The host Ezri is psi-negative. Together, they are psi-null.”

“One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other half,” she murmurs.

“Ezri?” Lenara asks, placing a hand on her lower back.

“That's what Timor told me before he died. I thought he was just babbling, but now… I think he was trying to tell me that half of all Trill can be joined and the other half are telepaths.”

–

_In 2371, Jadzia Dax, Dr. Julian Bashir, and my father, Benjamin Sisko, travelled to the Trill homeworld to find treatment for Dax's lowered isoboramine levels. Days later, they returned to Deep Space Nine with Dax in good health and a secret that promised to rock the foundations of Trill society._

_“Over the course of her treatment, we discovered that the Dax symbiont had been joined to a host between Torias and Curzon,” Dr. Bashir recalls over subspace. “The host, Joran, was kept a secret by the Symbiosis Commission—even from Dax—because Joran was a murderer and therefore did not fit the rigorous criteria set forth by the Symbiosis Commission's initiate program. His short but successful joining to the Dax symbiont proved that far more Trill are capable of being joined than the Symbiosis Commission purports.”_

_“How much more?” I ask._

_“Approximately 49.9 percent more, according to Jadzia's doctor at the Commission, Dr. Renhol.”_

_“That's quite a cover-up. Did Dr. Renhol tell you why the Symbiosis Commission kept those numbers from the public eye?”_

_“I think she imagined a kind of consumerist relationship between host and symbiont would develop. With the number of potential hosts far outweighing the number of symbionts, she believed the symbionts would become a prized commodity to be fought over rather than a privilege to be earned.”_

_Considering the Symbiosis Commission's refusal to even read Nulat Otner's application and their neglect of symbionts in reassociated hosts, the conceit of the Symbiosis Commission awarding symbionts to the most qualified Trill to protect the symbiont population is laughable._

_The Symbiosis Commission appears more interested in assuring that the “right” Trill are joined than in preserving the lives of symbionts. The intrinsic value of symbiont life is cast aside for their importance in creating a nearly immortal Trill elite comprised those whose achievements, relationships, and biology meets the Symbiosis Commission's approval._

_**[Editor's note: Wow, Jake.** _

_**Author's note: Is that a good wow?** _

_**Editor's note: That's a very good wow.]** _

–

Having to wait for Jake to open the door really dampens the effect of Ezri bursting into his quarters, yelling, “Stop the presses!” But she does it anyway.

Nog stops mid-push-up. “Stop the what?”

“Nothing. It's an old Earth thing. From one of Julian's holoprograms.” She turns to Jake in his recliner, tapping away at his PADD. “Have you sent your article to your editor yet?”

“Yeah.” Jake watches warily as Lenara, sixteen Trill, and three elderly Vulcans flow through his cabin door. “I just got her comments back.”

“Damn. Is there any way you could convince her into including a different ending?”

“Considering my editor for this project is also my stepmother, I'd say I'd have pretty good shot… Who are all these people?”

Nog looks Sybok up and down. “Don't I know you from somewhere?”

“No,” Sybok says.

“I swear, I’ve seen your face somewhere.”

Sybok narrows his eyes at the Ferengi. “No. You don't know me from anywhere. You have never seen my face before. In fact, I was never here. Now leave your quarters and do not return for two hours.”

Nog stands up and pushes through the crowd to the front door. “I'm gonna go.” He looks back at Sybok. “And not because you influenced me telepathically, because you can't do that to a Ferengi, but because something really weird and possibly illegal is going on here and I don't want to get in trouble for it.” The door swishes shut behind him.

“These are my friends,” Ezri says. “And they're going to win you an Intergalactic Peabody.”

–

_The Symbiosis Commission portrays itself as the premier institute on the science of joining, but the secrecy necessitated by multiple conspiracies prevents the Commission from sharing fundamental information about joining with their own people. Trill, like Ezri Dax, have to look outside their species for answers, recruiting a trained telepath to study what makes some Trill capable of joining and not others. (Due to the controversial nature of their work, the telepath wishes to remain anonymous and will hereby be referred to as, “Vulcan Love Slave.”)_

_“From the readings I have taken,” Vulcan Love Slave recounts from an undisclosed location, “the half of the population that is capable of joining is born with negative telepathic qualities. By joining with the positively telepathic symbiont, they become telepathically neutral.”_

_“And the other half of the Trill population?” I ask. “Those incapable of joining?”_

_“They are telepaths.”_

_How could one half of a species be telepathic without knowing? As Vulcan Love Slave explains, telepathy amongst most Trill is deeply recessed out of necessity. With roughly one half of the population unknowingly projecting negative telepathic signals that irritate and even pain psi-positive people, telepaths unconsciously learn to dampen their abilities from an early age. Those who fail to do so stand out as telepaths and are often drafted into the Guardian program, like Chanu Xostro._

_With training, Vulcan Love Slave argues, the telepathic half of the Trill population could become as strong and as skilled psionically as any Guardian._

_“One half of my species is just a childhood mistake—one failure to learn—away from being sent to die in the Caves of Mak'ala,” Ezri Dax says. “I don't think any of us thought we were so close to the slaughterhouse.”_

–

“ _Journalist wunderkind Jake Sisko crafts an incisive polemic_ ,” Ezri reads aloud.

Avin Xostro shouts across the crowded bar, “ _For his age, Sisko manages to invoke a muckraking spirit from centuries past._ ”

“ _The multifaceted exposé may not leave you totally convinced_ ,” Kasidy reads, “ _but you will be left far more suspicious than you were before._ ”

“That's the best we can ask for!” Lenara cuts in.

“ _'Who is Vulcan Love Slave?' may be the question of our century._ ” Nog glares over his PADD at Jake. “Tell me it's not—”

Jake zips his lips. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

Quark sets a root beer in front of Jake. “Another drink from the Trill at the bar.”

Jake looks around Quark's, every nook and cranny filled with happy, drinking Trill. “Which one?”

Quarks points to Ezri, who raises her glass.

Jake toasts to her and takes a chug that sends him coughing. “Does this have rum in it?”

“The Trill at the bar said not to tell your father,” Quark says.

Jake looks out towards the wormhole. “Somehow, I think he already knows.”


	14. Never Again Will We Live Behind Bars

“So, er…” Julian waits until he, Nulat, and Alexander are well are out of hearing range of the cafeteria doorman. “…exactly how authentic was that 'traditional Trill breakfast?'”

Nulat pulls a balled-up napkin from her pocket, revealing inside a half-chewed theyat roll. “Worse than synthesized.” She tosses the napkin into a trash can.

“I know as someone whose people eat gagh once a day I'm probably not the best person to be making this criticism,” Alexander says. “But did that songbird taste raw to anyone else?”

Julian nods. “Mine was still singing.”

They turn left into the dormitories’ main corridor, heading down to the transporter room. “Between this morning's breakfast and last night's racket, I'd say this place is threatening to overtake that Dominion prison camp as the worst place I've ever lived.”

“What happened last night?” Nulat asks.

“You didn't hear it?”

“Hear what?” Alexander asks.

“That damn scuffling going on downstairs. Woke me up around twenty-three hundred. I had one hell of a time falling back asleep.”

“I didn't hear anything,” Nulat says.

“Neither did I,” Alexander adds.

“Hmm. Must be my enhanced hearing,” Julian says.

“Or you could've been dreaming,” Nulat says.

Approaching the first security checkpoint for the transporters, Nulat, Julian, and Alexander ready their credentials, flashing their ID cards at the two Cardassian officers stationed at the checkpoint.

“The transporter is out of service,” the taller guard in a tight uniform says. 

“Again?” Julian groans. “I thought you resolved this last week.”

“We apologize for the inconvenience,” the short guard in the baggy uniform says.

“Is there any way I can get to my work assignment?” Alexander asks. “My patient is due to deliver any day now. If I'm not there…”

The two guards confer briefly, heatedly, in Kardasi before the taller guard says, “A hovercar will be in front of the building to pick you up at oh-nine-hundred.”

“Thanks.”

“What about the rest of us?” Nulat asks.

“You have the day off,” the shorter guard says.

Julian waits until they are well out of the guards' hearing range to say, “Something's not right here.”

“What do you mean?” Nulat asks.

“Those guards aren't the same guards who were patrolling the area last week. In fact, I don't think they're really even guards.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, for one their accents are completely different than any other security officer employed here. Those two guards speak the northern continental dialect while the rest speak with a Cardassia City accent.”

“Since when do you speak Kardasi?” Alexander asks.

“I've been working on it since last week. There was an incident.” Julian looks back at the security checkpoint. “It's not just how they speak. Look at how ill-fitting their uniforms are. You know what I think? I think they knocked out two guards, stole their uniforms, and are now posing as security officers.”

“Julian,” Alexander starts, “I'm pretty sure that only happens in holosuite programs.”

“I know it sounds clichéd, but those men are not who they say they are.”

“Why would they pretend to be someone else?” Nulat asks.

“I don't know, but I imagine it has something to do with the noise I heard last night and the transporter outages we've been having.” Julian stops walking and grabs his two companions by the shoulders. “We need to get to the bottom of this.”

Nulat snaps her fingers, turning them into guns pointed at Julian. “I'm on it.” She takes off down the corridor back toward the security checkpoint.

“What is she doing?” Alexander asks.

“I have no idea,” Julian says.

In the distance, Nulat whistles loudly at the two guards and says something that sounds like, “You two know where an unjoined Trill can get a kanar?”

Alexander raises his eyebrows. “Theatre people are weird.”

–

“Ah, Leeta.” Garak closes the conference room door behind them. “How generous of you to meet with me on such short notice.”

“I'm just lucky I had the time.” She smiles artificially. “Thank you for clearing my schedule for me.”

“It was nothing. Come, sit. A glass of water? You must be dreadfully parched in this arid climate.”

“Water would be grand.”

Garak pours her a glass. “I'm terribly sorry the weather has become so unexpectedly hot. You and your charges must be melting away.”

“Actually, it's not that—”

“I hope you will forgive me. In the past week, I have done my best to keep you from the regions where the heat wave has struck most profusely, but since then the warm front has spread to Cardassia City. Had I known Cardassia City would become so _inflamed_ , I would not have invited your group to come at this time.”

The corners of Leeta's lips turn downward. “Not that you mention it, the streets have been a little hot.”

“Almost as hot as Bajor during the summer of 2369.”

Leeta sets her glass down on Garak's desk, resting her hands on her lap. “Ferengi are used to cold, rainy weather; I don't think it would be healthy for my group to stay here much longer.”

“My thoughts exactly. Perhaps you could visit us again during the colder season, whenever that may be.”

“Perhaps.” Leeta stands, smoothing out her skirt. “I'll have the Nagus' personal cruiser here by tomorrow morning. Are there any _special dignitaries_ who would like to visit Ferenginar?”

“I will let you know.”

“You have my comm frequency.”

Garak sees her to the door. “It was truly lovely seeing you again. I wish things could have worked out differently.”

“That's how life goes sometimes.” She shrugs. “Some weather changes are inevitable.”

The door swishes open. As soon as Leeta has cleared the entrance, Bashir bursts through. “What the hell is going on in the city?”

“Ah, my dear doctor. You're just in time for lunch at our favorite restaurant.”

—

Barely a sliver of light from the Cardassian noontime sun casts through the opening door when the housemates swarm around it, shouting their questions at Garak still outside.

"What's happened?" Lauren yells, as if she didn't already know.

"Has the government fallen yet?" Jack asks.

"Do we still have jobs?" Patrick asks.

With one powerful shove, Garak swings the door open, pushing Lauren and Jack along with it, trapping them between the door and the foyer wall. "I will tell you if you get out of the way." Garak stomps his way through Patrick and Sarina, taking a deep breath and—to Julian's amusement—straightening his tunic. "Now then. What has happened? A minor bout of civil unrest throughout the planet that is coalescing in the city. Has the government fallen yet? As far as I know, it has not. Do you still have jobs? For tonight, yes. But I wouldn't count on it tomorrow." Garak pats the sides of his head, assuring that his hair remains in place.

Either Jack or Lauren slams the front door shut (barely missing Bashir's backside) as they stalk out from behind it, suddenly predatory.

"Someone's upset," Lauren says.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Jack asks. "Huh? Isn't it?"

"You gave the northern continent everything they needed to foment an insurrection." She smiles at Julian. "Access to Federation ideals. Easily hackable and instantaneous transit to the city."

"The dormitory's transporters," Julian murmurs.

"You should be happy," Jack says. "Don't look a gift coup in the mouth."

"Are they saying what I think they're saying?" Julian asks Garak.

"That depends entirely on what you think they are saying," Garak says.

"As coordinator, did you design the volunteer relief program with the intent of inciting a citizen's revolt?"

"No. Of course not. My plans for the volunteer program merely contained a few elements that would gradually enable a transition to a more equitable government. That is all. Although… I must admit somewhere along the line the timeline became a bit compressed."

"A bit? As far as I can tell, the rebels have complete run of the volunteer dormitory. That's a government building, is it not?"

"It is. And one that should not have fallen into their hands so quickly. I don't know how they found an engineer willing to override the transporter protocols."

Julian thinks back to sweaty days spent digging wells with someone vastly overqualified. "I have a fair guess."

"Care to share?"

"Can you promise they won't be summarily executed?"

"By me, yes. I can make no promises for whatever government we will have next week."

"There's a woman at my work site who learned engineering from the military. Honestly, I'm surprised you didn't know about her already."

"Yes, well… The Obsidian Order is not what it was."

"I don't think anyone will miss it," Sarina says.

"You're quite right," Garak says, lowering his gaze. "Operatives don't leave behind people who will miss them."

Patrick speaks up. "Are they going to execute you?"

Garak looks at him, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned in a reassuring smile weighed down by reality. "Not if I work quickly." He glances around the room at Jack and Lauren. "Although I am afraid I cannot make the same guarantees for your safety. I have, however, arranged safe passage off-planet, leaving tomorrow morning."

"If we leave Cardassia," Lauren starts, "can you guarantee we won't be thrown back in the institute?"

"No. I can't."

Lauren, Patrick, and Jack lock eyes for less than a second. "Then we're not leaving," Lauren says.

"And you two?" Garak glances between Sarina and Julian.

"I can't leave without knowing you—they will be safe," Julian says.

"If they're staying," Sarina says, "I'm staying."

"Very well," Garak says. "I hope you two will enjoy your front row seats to the further crumbling of our once proud civilization."

"What about the other volunteers?" Julian asks. "Will they be evacuated off-planet?"

"Yes. Not by the government, of course. Every resource is being allocated to quashing the growing rebellion—not that the State is even acknowledging the existence of a rebellion. Sufficeth to say I have arranged alternative transport for the volunteer corps."

—

Designed for use in shifts, the volunteer dormitories lack a space large enough to address the entirety of the corps, so Garak ends up standing in the middle of the sidewalk as the volunteers watch from the building’s front steps.

“I have some unfortunate news,” Garak says, through a megaphone helpfully handed off by one of the security officers. Or whoever is pretending to be a security officer, if Bashir’s theory is to be believed. “Due to the repeated transporter failures, all volunteer assignments have been suspended indefinitely. I know this is disappointing to so many of you, but I do have an exciting announcement that may console you. In gratitude for the excellent examples of selflessness and charity you have given the Ferengi Volunteer Program, the First Lady of Ferenginar has offered you all a trip to Ferenginar tomorrow morning, which is incidentally the same time the dormitories must be vacated for routine fumigation. I encourage all of you to take the First Lady up on this most generous offer and arrive at the city’s shuttle terminal as early as you can tomorrow morning to ensure your seat.”

Garak lowers the megaphone, scanning the audience for staff who clearly did not belong. (Julian was right; those uniforms fit dreadfully. No officer of the State would dare go out dressed like that.) Garak pointedly makes eye contact with each of them.

“Before we say goodbye,” Garak says, “I would like to take a moment to thank all of you for your service. The work you have done for our fair planet cannot be overstated. As a man who grew up watching his mother—a maid born not too far from where we stand—carry crates of market goods on her back, haul delicate fabrics down into the damp cellar for handwashing, clean the highest windows and the lowest drains, I understand what it is to labor for so little reward. Our undying gratitude cannot even begin to repay the hours you have spent working to make Cardassia, if not as she was before, then perhaps better than she has ever been. As a man of the people—of my people—I thank you.”

He hopes that’s enough.

—

“Sarina…” Julian casually runs his hand through his hair. “I know that I have done things in the past that have damaged our relationship, that have made it impossible for us to be together. And I regret those things horribly. I wish I could take them back and give you the Julian Bashir that you deserved, but I can’t. All I can give you is tonight.” He leans in closer, wetting his lips. “The world may literally end tomorrow. This might be our last night together—or even our last night alive. I wondered if you’d give me the honor of your company.”

Julian stares soulfully at his reflection for a moment before breaking out into a grin. “I think you’ve still got it, Heartbreaker Bashir.” (Note: no one has ever called him ‘Heartbreaker Bashir.’ With the notable exception of himself inside his own head.)

Julian checks his breath, finds it decent, fixes his hair, and leaves the bathroom. Staring at Sarina’s bedroom door, Julian inhales deeply, shaking the tension out of his limbs, and in a fit of nervous excitement/gross overconfidence, opens her door without knocking. “Sarina, I know that I have done—”

Sarina yips loudly, throwing the nearest scrap of fabric over her naked body.

Jack removes his face from her bosom, turning to growl at Julian, “ _Do you knock?_ ”

Julian swings the door shut, walks down the hallway, out of the house, and down the street, berating himself all the while.

How could he possibly think that would work? That Sarina would be there waiting for him with open arms? That she came all this way for him? After what he did?

Why again would he assume that she wanted him? That years of silently pining away over Jack would suddenly disappear after a few dates with Julian?

Perhaps even more stupidly, why would he think that something like that would happen to him? Why would he be part of some epic romance when his life bears every precedent of Julian alone, his lover gone, left for their one great love affair—which was never, ever with Julian? Why, after Jadzia going for Worf, Leeta leaving him for Rom, and now Ezri running back to Kahn, would Julian even consider for the briefest moment that someone would choose him? Why delude himself with the possibility of a happily ever after with Sarina when all the evidence points to Julian being a damn pit stop on everyone else’s road to true love?

If his own parents didn’t want him for who he was, why should he expect anyone else to?

Now, he’s lost—literally and figuratively—alone, in the dark, with no one—

Up ahead, the twinkling of transporter lights prelude Garak’s arrival.

Julian looks around, finding himself farther from the house than he imagined. “Do you live around here?”

“Nearby,” Garak says, strolling toward him. “I received a most peculiar call from the—well, a governmental agency that will remain unnamed. Apparently, several citizens in this area dialed the police to report a human walking alone, unescorted at night. After discovering who that unchaperoned human was, they were kind enough to inform me before beginning official arrest procedures.” Garak grabs Julian’s elbow, steering him along the sidewalk. “Is there a particular reason why you decided to be suspicious in a society that, more than ever, abhors the suspicious?”

Julian shakes his head. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Obviously.”

“I just… Did you know I spent an hour today in the bathroom, practicing in the mirror how I’d approach Sarina, polishing my skills of seduction as if that would make a single difference? And then the moment I walk out, I find her and Jack, and I… I just had to get away from there.” He looks down at the ground. “I suppose I thought if I walked far enough, I could separate myself from how damned foolish I’d been.”

“Ah, I see.” Garak lets go of his elbow. “I hope you realize now, as I just have, that there is no ridding you of your almost pathological foolishness when it comes to matters of the heart. No matter how old you grow, no matter who you meet or what you do, you will always be the same Dr. Julian Bashir.”

Julian smiles wryly. “A source of continuity in an ever-changing world. I suppose that’s what you like about me.”

“No. I think I rather despise it right now.” They wait for a ground car to pass before crossing the intersection. “Your incessant need to find women and fix them has grown stale,” Garak says in an even, pleasant, and utterly inconspicuous tone. One never knows who is watching. Or listening. “You’d think you would have figured out after Melora that people aren’t projects and your surgery isn’t a singles bar, but there you went after Sarina, taking advantage of one of your kind. Honestly, I’m surprised they didn’t kill you. They must really like you.

“And then, who can forget poor, confused Ezri Dax desperate—at least, in your mind—for someone to show her who she truly was. A remnant of Jadzia waiting to be molded into the perfect woman.”

“What are you—” Julian starts.

Garak keeps talking. “Just like your father molded you into the perfect son.

“And you hope that, unlike you, your perfect women won’t be a little too pedantic for their own good, a little slow to pick up on social cues, a little too fixated on their hobbies, a little too—”

Julian stops walking. “Why are you saying this? I didn’t do a damned thing to you.”

“That’s the crux of the issue, isn’t it?” Garak keeps on down the sidewalk, forcing Julian to follow after to hear him. “You haven’t done a damned thing to me, because there’s not a damned thing you can do for me. _You can’t fix me._ Oh, you tried, during the war, but my claustrophobia was beyond your purview as a surgeon, the scars from a long life in the shadows of Cardassian society too metaphorical to be erased by a dermal regenerator. I’ve given up my hopes for our relationship, because I realized I’m nothing you can fix with a laser scalpel.”

“What do you mean ‘hopes for our relationship?’” Julian asks.

“Don’t act innocent here.” A trace of bile finds its way into Garak’s sugary tone. “I have done everything I can to bring you here. To bring you to me. I gave you frontier medicine. I gave your friends a normal life. I have tried to be a better man.”

“You’re right. You’ve done everything. Everything but tell me how you feel.”

Garak raises a browridge. “And that would have worked?”

“Maybe.” Julian jams his hands in his pockets. “You’d have to try.”

“Very well then.” Garak takes a breath, exhaling it slowly. “My dear doctor, you are magnificent. You are a kinder, more gentle man than someone like me should ever have the hope of meeting. To me, you are essential. The worst days of my life have been warmed by your presence or even merely the thought of seeing you. I love you very, very dearly, and I would rearrange the constellations to have you in my life for the rest of my life.” He pauses. “Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

Julian contemplates his shoes. “I knew. Of course, I _knew_ that there was something… undefined about our relationship. I knew we always meant far more than what we said, but you were always so unavailable.”

“Unavailable? Me? I wasn’t the one chasing after everything that jiggled.”

“You’re the very definition of unavailable!”

Garak shushes him.

“You’re the very definition of unavailable,” Julian repeats quieter. “Every time I ask you about yourself, you lie. And anytime you tell me something of yourself—something real—the next day you act as if nothing has happened. Do you know how frustrating that is? Finding true emotional intimacy with someone only for them to scuttle away like a scared fish? And to have it happen over and over and over again? You’re a damned emotional tease, Garak.”

“If I had you in such a tizzy, why not take your own advice and tell me how you feel?”

“Because!” Julian quiets himself. “Because if I asked for more, you might cut me off completely. I’d rather have half of you then none of you at all.” Julian kicks at a weed growing up through the cracks in the pavement. “And honestly, the prospect of all of you was a little overwhelming, especially then. We were at war, someone always wanted you dead. I couldn’t… I couldn’t bear the thought of having you and then losing you all over again.”

“Again?”

“During the Dominion’s mental simulation… I… I watched you die, Garak,” Julian says almost a whisper. “Sisko had to drag me away from your body. And now… now it’s happening all over again. We’re closer than we’ve ever been right now and tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow,” Garak cuts in, “will happen regardless of what we do tonight. Neither of us can undo the mistakes in our past that have kept us apart. While we may regret those things and wish we had done things differently, the only thing we can do for each other now is be together fully, completely, the way we should have been. If only for tonight.” Garak licks his lips. “I don’t know what will become of Cardassia tomorrow. This could very well be the last night she sees—or that we see. My only wish is to spend the night with the man I love on the planet I love.”

Julian, feeling more like Odo (that is, a pile of warm goo), cups Garak’s face with shaky hands and leans in to—

“Not on the street!” Garak hisses, pushing Julian away. His eyes dart around the night sky, perhaps checking for those Obsidian Order dirigibles. Finding none, he smiles weakly at Julian. “I’m sorry, my dear.” (Julian finally allows himself to feel that twinge in his heart from being called Garak’s “dear”—something he’s been denying himself for almost a decade now.) “The government is on particularly high alert tonight for any, shall-we-say, unusual behavior.”

“I understand. If walking while human is a jailable offense, I can only imagine the punishment for kissing while human.”

Garak takes his elbow. “My house is only a few blocks from here.”

Julian grinds his elbow into Garak’s palm. “Is this as much as we can touch?”

“On the street, yes. In my house, you will find out.”

Julian giggles, bouncing slightly.

“What?”

“We’re going to have sex,” Julian giddily answers. “That’s so unbelievable. It’s great. _We_ are going to have sex… I mean, we are going to have sex, right? I haven’t misread this situation entirely, have I?”

“Yes. We will be having sex.”

“Fantastic. That’s brilliant.”

Garak bumps his hip against Julian’s, whispering in his ear, “I am going to treat you so well.”

“What if I don’t want to be treated well?” Julian whispers playfully.

“Then I will apply whatever techniques I have in my arsenal to persuade you otherwise.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, you know, readings from _The Neverending Sacrifice_ , flowcharts on the superiority of Cardassian mystery novels, the usual midmeal patter.”

“If I’d known you were trying to make me beg, I would’ve gotten down on my knees years ago.”

“If I’d known I could’ve had you kneeling in the replimat, I would’ve been more forthright in my intentions.” Garak turns, leading Julian up the path to a modestly-sized house.

“Oh, thank god,” Julian sighs. “I thought we’d never get here.”

“Patience, doctor,” Garak admonishes. Stepping up to the front door, he begins disengaging a wide variety of security mechanisms: retinal scans, voice recognition, typed codes, saliva sampling, blood tests, fashion quizzes… “The answer bank is designed with my tastes in mind,” he explains.

“So, if you had an off style day, you wouldn’t be able to get into your own home?”

“That’s the price one pays for home security.”

“Of course. You wouldn’t want tacky burglars breaking in. They might redecorate improperly.”

Garak satisfies the last security protocol and the door swishes open. “After you.”

Julian steps inside, finding a dark and largely undecorated space. He’s unsure if this is his human biases about interior design cropping up, but this seems much less of a home than where Garak put up Lauren and the others.

“Is this where you grew up?” Bashir asks.

The door slides shut after Garak. He busies himself with resetting the security system. “No, this was given to me by the State. Temporary housing until Tain’s manor was repaired.”

“Do you think you’ll move back in?”

“No. I’m tempted occasionally, but my old room is occupied.”

“By who?”

“Patrick.”

“Ah.”

“There.” Garak taps an almost melodic sequence into the door’s interface. “Done.” He turns.

He and Julian stand about two feet apart, staring into each other eyes. Julian swallows nervously, reaching out for Garak’s face. He cups the back of Garak’s head, feeling his smooth, almost feathery hair, before pulling him in. Garak arms wrap around Julian’s torso, drawing him into a hug. Julian strokes Garak’s hair as his eyes flutter shut.

Contentment.

Followed by creeping anxiety.

“Promise me you’re not going to leave me,” Julian says.

Garak looks up, not pulling away from Julian. “I’m not going to leave you.” He rests his cheek on Julian’s shoulder. “Promise me you’re not going to try to fix me.”

“I won’t try to fix you.” Julian kisses the top of his head.

Garak pulls back slightly, drawing himself up to Julian’s height in that beguilingly reptilian way of his, maneuvers his nose oh-so-carefully around Julian’s, and chastely kisses him. “Let’s go to bed,” Garak murmurs into Julian’s mouth.

—

Face-to-face, fully clothed, Garak and Bashir lie on Garak’s bed, their arms wrapped around each other.

“I’ve never, erm…” Julian looks down. “I’ve never—and I don’t want this to sound insulting in any way—but I’ve never…” Garak rubs his back, coaxing the words out of him. “I’ve never _been_ with someone who wasn’t, well, a mammal.”

Garak kisses Julian’s cheek, nuzzling it with his nose. “All things being equal, I’ve never been with someone who _was_ a mammal.”

“Good. I mean, not ‘good’ that you’ve never… It’s good to know that we’re on the same page. I mean, I know academically where areas of sensitivity lie on the Cardassian body, but not, as it were, on your Cardassian body.”

“Ah, well. The shoulders are always a good place to start.”

Julian’s fingers tickle up Garak’s spine to his right shoulder. “Is that…”

“Spread your fingers out a bit more and—mhmm—kneed… That’s it.” Garak looks up at Julian. “What about you?”

“I guess, erm, as far as foreplay, I like… you can kiss my neck, sort of up and down and by my ear… just, yes, that’s…”

The proceedings grow increasingly heated from there. In ten minutes, Julian is doing nothing but rubbing himself against Garak’s thigh with one hand fondling Garak’s shoulder while the other strokes his hair. “Your hair’s gorgeous,” Julian murmurs, in a long line of compliments that come close to, but never actually reach, “I love you.” Julian buries his face in Garak’s neck. “You smell so good.”

Garak nips at Julian’s ear lobe. “Pheromones.”

Julian pulls away, holding Garak at an arm’s length. “So, erm, you’re ready? Physically?”

“Yes.” Garak eyes ghost down Julian’s front. “And I assume _that_ means you’re ready?”

“Yes, physically. Mentally, I’m a bit nervous. But I guess you’ll be here the entire time so…”

“That’s the point.”

“I guess it is.”

—

The silk of Garak’s sleep tunic sticks to Julian’s sweat. Their plan of Julian sleeping nude and Garak donning pajamas so they can both be comfortable temperature-wise had been dashed to hell by Garak curling up on top of Julian like a living blanket. Or, more likely, a Cardassian on a heat rock.

Julian doesn’t particularly mind, so long as Garak keeps talking.

“She would bake sometimes,” Garak murmurs into Julian’s collarbone. “Not regularly. But on occasions that were special to us. Little things, like doing well on an exam I thought I would fail. Or making my first pair of pants.”

“She taught you how to sew?”

“Mhmm. She never had the artistic flare for it that I had, but technically she was quite good. As good as any maid. What she really excelled at was gardening. If she’d been higher born, she could’ve been a botanist.”

“What would she grow?”

“The usual normal things: fruits, vegetables, poisonous flowers, poisonous flowers cross-bred with fruits and vegetables. Very handy in my father’s line of work. Political enemies would come over for a salad and die of heart failure a week later with no one the wiser.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or teasing or—”

“I’m not. When I was a toddler, I ate an overly-ripe yamok I found on the ground. I’d never seen my mother so worried. She was convinced she’d killed me, but it turned out to be a normal yamok.”

“So… a yamok is a vegetable?”

“A fruit. What did you think it was?”

“I don’t know.” Julian yawns. “Maybe a quaint region where the sauce is made.”

Garak mumbles something about Federation narcissism that Julian can’t quite parse. He tightens his arms around Garak, patting the back of his head. Gradually, Garak’s breathing slows and Julian’s eyes drift shut as they surrender to the inevitability of tomorrow and what it may bring.


	15. One More Day Before the Storm

“Now, what you gotta realize about raising symbionts is that it’s not an exact science,” Vic lectures from his bar’s stage. “If it was, any crumb off the street could do it. You gotta be able to feel your way through it. Get into the groove.”

One of the prospective Guardians below raises a hand.

“Yes. Question?”

“How?” she asks.

“How what?”

“How does one…” She reads off her notePADD, “ _get into the groove_?”

“Oh. Good question. The first thing you might wanna do is observe the symbionts’ behavior. Watch what they do, how they respond to things. Get a feel for the rhythm of their lives. And then when you introduce changes into the environment, like lowering the pH in the pool, you can see how that affects them. Eventually, you’ll be able to anticipate their reactions.”

At the bar, observing, Lenara calls out, “Observation and hypothesis. That sounds a lot like science to me.”

“Of course, it does. You’re a scientist.” Vic comes off the stage, walking down the stairs to main dining area of the bar. “I’m not knocking you for it; I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. But there’s a difference between science and what we’re doing.” He weaves through the crowd of prospective Guardians, heading towards the symbiont pool. “At the end of the day, whatever science gives you is the best guess, am I right?”

“Essentially,” Lenara says. “Science attempts to offer the best explanation for phenomena based on the available information. When new information presents itself, that explanation may change. Science is a constant process of trying to understand the universe.”

“Right.” Vic addresses his pupils. “So, Lenara tells us science is trying to understand. Our Vulcan friend tells us telepathy is knowing. This is probably a little of both.”

“Maybe you could give us a demonstration?” Lenara prompts, glad her schedule allows her supervise this lesson. Vic, having never taught in his short, holographic existence, was about as nervous as Lenara had ever seen a hologram. (Like most of the old school rec deck users, Lenara keeps away from programs involving serious danger to her or the characters. Holosuites were designed for safe relaxation and exercise, not an endless parade of blood and Vikings and private detectives.) Her presence seems to calm him as he gets into his pedagogical groove.

“Sure. Why don’t you all come over here? Gather around.”

Lenara hops off her barstool.

“Not you,” Vic says. “You stay there for right now.”

“Okay.” Lenara stops still.

“Alright.” Vic smiles at the Guardian initiates. “Now, notice how the symbionts are acting. They’re swimming around slowly, active, but not doing much. Very calm.” Vic looks to Lenara. “You can come over now.”

Lenara crosses to the symbiont, noticing how with each step she can hear the symbiont splashing about more and more.

“Now, look at ‘em. They’re flailing all over the place. Why is that?”

“My presence has an excitatory effect on the symbionts,” Lenara answers.

“Okay, good. That’s our science answer. What else?”

Trivora, a little girl of only five (and, according to Sybok, their strongest telepath) leans over the pool, one of her braids dipping into the water before being tucked backed into place by her father. She looks up and smiles, several teeth missing from her grin. “They like her.”

“What was that, sweetheart?” Vic asks.

“They like Kahn,” Trivora repeats. “The sym-byunts are happy to see her.”

“Exactly. The symbionts like her. When she goes by them, they get excited because they’re happy to see her. Very good. As you can see, there’s a lot you can tell about the symbionts just by looking at their body language, but as Trivora showed us, intuition can go the extra mile and tell us for sure what the symbionts are thinking.

“Now all of this relates back to maybe the most important thing you need to know about symbionts: they don’t like being alone. They’re very social people. If they’re left alone for too long, they get sad, they don’t eat as much, they don’t swim around the pool. That’s why it’s good to have two of them together so they can keep each other company, but still, they like having visitors.”

Trivora’s father raises his hand.

“Yes, sir?”

“The Caves of Mak’ala are fairly isolated. Do you think the symbionts could be growing faster here because they’re happier and eating more?”

“Could be,” Vic says. “That’s a good point. Maybe that’s something Lenara and her scientists can look into.”

“We will,” Lenara says. “I think that’s enough for today. Unless anybody has any questions, I think we’re—”

Trivora’s hand flies into the air.

“Trivora?”

“Do sym-byunts poop?”

The bar fills with chuckles as Trivora’s dad admonishes, “Honey, that’s not a very polite question.”

“It’s alright,” Lenara says. She kneels to eye-level with Tivora. “Symbionts, like most living beings, expel waste after eating. So, yes. Symbionts do poop. Why do you ask?”

“I think the older one is pooping right now.”

“Okay.” Lenara smiles. “Well, why don’t we give them some privacy?” Lenara stands up, placing a hand on Trivora’s tiny shoulder to lead her and her father out with the other students. She takes a look back at Vic. “Have a good show tonight. Break a leg.” Something in the pool catches her eye. Her hand falls from Trivora’s shoulder. “Trivora, you go on ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Okay. Bye-bye!” Trivora skips out with her father, leaving Lenara gazing down at the symbiont pool awestruck.

“What’s wrong?” Vic asks. “The big guy got the runs or something?”

“No. It’s laying eggs.”

—

“Come,” Ezri calls.

Kira pokes her head into Ezri’s office. 

“What’s up?”

Kira taps her fingers on the doorframe. “I thought I’d let you know that a Trill vessel has just registered to dock at the station tomorrow morning.”

“A Trill vessel?”

“The Niantis, to be specific.”

“Oh my god,” Ezri gasps, letting PADDwork fall to her desk. “That’s the Symbiosis Commission’s official cruiser.”

“I just thought I’d let you know.” And she leaves.

—

Lenara and Vic bite their nails at the bar while Dr. Girani and Y’Pora, Colonel Kira’s midwife, supervise the birth.

“I don’t think I was this nervous the last time I was in labor,” Lenara says. She stares at Vic nibbling at his thumbnail. “When did you start biting your nails?”

Vic pulls his hand away, wiping his thumb on his pants. “I don’t know. When did you?”

“Chilar.” Lenara folds her hands in her lap. “When we were working on creating believable, three dimensional character renderings, to get through the uncanny valley every team member made something we called a ‘life mold.’ Essentially, a motion capture device that recorded our mannerisms to make more realistic characters. As far as I know, the character attributes taken from Chilar’s life mold are still used by programmers today. In other words, it runs in the family.”

Y’Pora turns around, glaring at them. “If you do not quiet yourselves, I will remove you from the birthing suite.”

Lenara rolls her eyes at Y’Pora treating this like a normal Bajoran birth with all the need for quiet and relaxation for the mother. The symbionts aren’t Bajoran; they’re not even mammals. They’re parasitic mollusks. They don’t have ears.

Even so, Lenara keeps her mouth shut for the rest of egg laying out of a healthy fear of midwives which she developed after a traffic collision with a Klingon midwife. That was two lifetimes ago, but Lenara can still feel the bite marks on her arm.

After about an hour, Girani holsters her medical tricorder, her lips thinning as she rubs the wrinkled bridge of her nose.

“What’s wrong?” Lenara asks.

Y’Pora doesn’t shush her, so it must be serious.

“The birth was successful,” Girani says. “All forty of the eggs appear healthy. But the mother’s life signs are showing an appreciable drop.”

“What does that mean?” Lenara asks.

“We don’t know.”

—

“Hey, Dax. Good to see ya,” Quark says. “Isn’t it a little early for lu—”

Ezri hops over the bar like Emony with a vault, and presses Quark against the wall with her forearm pinning his throat. “Who did you tell about Vic’s?” she hisses.

“No one!” He squirms. “I swear. No Ferengi businessman would admit to anyone that he was letting someone use his holosuite free of charge—little worm person or not.”

Ezri eases off his throat slightly. “What about your waiters? Do any of them know?”

“I imagine there’s been some gossip amongst the staff about what’s going on in Vic’s. All those Trill coming in and out. You and Lenara there at all hours of the night.”

“Would any of them try to sell that information?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“All of them.”

On the other side of the bar, Grimp puts down a tray of dirty glasses and hotfoots to the exit, bumping into several patrons on the way.

Ezri and Quark share a glance. “I really wish Odo was here right now,” Quark groans.

Ezri lets him go. “Me, too.”

With no Changeling on hand, they run after Grimp themselves, Quark trailing behind Ezri considerably. (To be fair, Ezri probably wouldn’t be able to walk in his shoes, let alone run in them.)

Ezri tackles Grimp in front of Lysia’s cart.

Looking up at Ezri with wide, terrified eyes, he pleads, “Don’t hurt me! I only sold that information to feed my family.”

“Please,” Quark spits. “You’d sell your own mother to the Dominion for a strip of latinum.”

Grimp looks confused as to whether he should treat that as a compliment or an accusation.

“What did you tell them?” Ezri demands, shaking Grimp by the collar.

“Only that the symbionts were on DS9,” Grimp says. “Not where they were on the station. I was going to charge them extra for that.”

“If you do, I will make the rest of your life very unpleasant.”

Grimp pshaws. “You Starfleet uniforms are all talk.”

“But I’m not,” Quark says. “Maybe you’re forgetting the confidentiality agreement you signed that states that any Quark’s employee who reveals customers’ holosuite habits for profit thereby surrenders their property and the profit they accrue over the next ten years to the proprietor. That would be me.” Quark crosses his arms over his chest. “You can tell the Symbiosis Commission whatever you want, but you’re not seeing a single slip of that latinum.”

—

With Grimp seeing the error of his ways (don’t get caught), Ezri comes to Vic’s to break the bad news to Lenara… and see the forty symbiont eggs who could very well be seized by the Symbiosis Commission tomorrow morning. She finds Vic, Lenara, Girani, and Y’Pora huddled around the pool, murmuring amongst themselves.

“We’ve got trouble,” Ezri says.

Lenara looks up, the corners of her mouth turned down. “So do we.”

“The Symbiosis Commission is on its way here.”

“The older symbiont is dying.”

“You win,” Ezri says. “What happened?”

“After giving birth,” Girani explains, “its autonomic nervous system started to slowly shut down as all neural activity refocused to producing isoboramine.”

“Isn’t there something you can do?” Ezri asks.

“No, I’m afraid not. The symbiont has reached maturity and in order to live it needs a host.”

“Then let’s get it a host.”

—

“No,” Sybok mutters, shaking his head violently. “No, it will not be done. No.” He squints his eyes once more at the dying symbiont and then back at the pool of prospective hosts. “No,” he pronounces. “None of them are suitable.”

“What do you mean?” Lenara asks. “Were we wrong about psi-negatives being capable of joining?”

“No. They—” He points at the crowd of trembling Trill. “—can be joined. But not to that symbiont.” He looks Lenara up and down. “It wants you.”

“What?”

“It has grown far too accustomed to you. The Kahn symbiont has told the dying symbiont too much about how good a host you are.” He points a finger in her face. “You should not have spent so much time with it.”

“I’m beginning to see that.” And why joined Trill aren’t allowed to become Guardians.

“It will reject any other host. It wants you.”

“What about the next best thing?”

—

Sybok seizes Bejal, gripping his upper arms tightly. “This one will do.”

In the background, Ezri tries desperately to calm the rest of Lenara’s family, attempting to convince them that a dead Vulcan religious fanatic/terrorist bursting into their quarters unannounced is actually a good thing.

“Do what?” Bejal asks, looking to his sister for answers.

“One of the symbionts needs to join or it will die,” Lenara says. “And, owing to a _slight_ error of judgment on my part, you’re the only Trill on this station it can join with.”

“Me? Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

Bejal sits down on the couch, putting his head between his knees. “I can’t believe it.”

“Bej…” Lenara rests a hand on his back.

He looks up at her. “I gave up hope of this ever happening a long time ago.”

“But you always said you didn’t want to be joined. That’s why you didn’t sign up for the registry.”

“I only said that because I knew what we all knew: if anyone in this family was going to be joined, it would be Lenara, the smart one. Or Nulat, the talented one. Or both of you. But not me. Never me.” He pauses. “And now it’s happening. It’s actually happening.”

Lenara rubs his back.

“I just… I need a minute, okay?”

—

Lenara’s family sits in the infirmary’s informal waiting room, awaiting word from Bejal’s surgery, all biting their nails. It really does run in the family, then.

Girani comes out, still wearing her red scrubs. “I have bad news.”

Bejal’s wife gasps, hugging her children to her chest.

“The other symbiont has gone into labor,” Girani says. “It’s already showing signs of isoboramine hyperproduction.”

“What about my brother?” Lenara asks.

“Bejal and the symbiont came through the surgery well. They’re in recovery.”

The Otner family groans, filling the waiting room with Trill invectives.

“I probably should’ve said that first,” Girani says.

“You think?” Lenara’s mother snaps.

Lenara and Ezri leave the family to their griping—only Trill could complain about someone being healthy—to talk to Girani about the other symbiont.

“According to the Vulcan,” Girani says, “this symbiont is just as attached to Lenara as the last.”

Lenara nods. “I see. How long does it have?”

“Twelve, maybe fifteen hours if I place it in stasis immediately following birth.”

“Good. That’s just enough time.”

“For what?” Ezri asks.

“To get Nulat here from Cardassia.”

—

Lenara slaps their quarters’ communications array. “She’s still not answering. And neither is the volunteer coordinator. The whole damn grid is spotty. What the hell is going on on Cardassia?”

“I don’t know,” Ezri says. “But I think I know someone we can get a clear channel to.”

A few minutes later, their vidscreen is graced by Elim Garak’s bleary-eyed and pajama-clad presence. “Garak here.”

“Hey, it’s Ezri. I need to ask you a favor.”

He rolls his eyes and mutters something like, “All of civilization is crumbling around me and she wants a favor.”

“It’s about my sister,” Lenara says, stepping into frame.

Garak squints at the screen. “Who’s that? Oh, no. Wait, of course, the lovely and beguiling and cuckolding Lenara Kahn. So lovely to meet you. What was it you needed?”

“Nulat. I haven’t been able—”

Somewhere offscreen, a man’s voice scratchily mumbles, “Garak, what’s going on? Come back to bed.” The man wanders into the frame. Or at least one particularly facet of his anatomy does.

Ezri grimaces at the sight before cocking her head to the side. “ _Julian?_ ”

Julian yips, flinging himself away from the camera. “You didn’t tell me you were on a vidcall,” he hisses.

“I wouldn’t worry, dear,” Garak says. “It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before.”

Hiding behind a sofa, Julian looks to Garak’s monitor. “Ezri?”

She waves. “It’s just me. And Lenara.” She looks to the cub reporter sitting in an armchair, desperately covering his eyes. “And Jake.”

“Jake!”

Ezri shrugs. “He’s recording this for posterity. After his article blew up, we gave him exclusive rights to the story.”

“Jake,” Bashir pleads to the camera. “Promise me you won’t put this in the book.”

"I don't even want it in my mind right now," Jake groans.

"What was it you wanted?" Garak asks somewhat distracted by Julian's state of undress.

"Nulat," Lenara repeats. "I haven't been able to contact her and I need her on DS9 in ten hours."

"I see,” Garak says. “I should be able to get her on subspace for you within an hour or so, but getting her to Deep Space Nine may prove difficult. Transport off-planet is presently at a premium, and I’m afraid those most likely to face the guillotine have booked their tickets in advance.”

"Is there anything you could do?” Ezri asks. “This is a matter of life and death.”

"There's a lot of that going around." Garak sighs, sparing a long lingering look down Bashir's bare chest. "I'll talk to Leeta and see if she can stop at DS9 on the way to Ferenginar.”

“Thank you.” Ezri's face scrunches up. “What’s Leeta doing on Cardassia?”

“It is a very, very long story that I’m sure Nulat would love to regale you with tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks, Garak.”

“I’ll keep you posted.”

The vidscreen clicks off and Lenara mutters, “What the hell has been going on on Cardassia?”

—

Ezri stands alone on Vic’s stage (all shows are indefinitely cancelled), staring down at every member of the resistance: Lenara, Bejal in infirmary cotton, Trivora and the other children already dressed for bed and fidgeting in their parents’ arms. She closes her eyes and imagines, not what Jadzia or Curzon or any of the other hosts would do in this situation, but what Benjamin would say right now.

She opens her eyes, the lights of the bar blurred from tears.

“The Symbiosis Commission is coming here. Tomorrow. They know we’re raising symbionts and they’re coming to take them back.”

The audience dissolves into murmurs and shouts.

“Listen!” Lenara shouts over them.

“I’m going to ask more—” The audience shushes at Ezri’s firm tone. “I’m going to ask more of you than I have any right to. We can’t let the Symbiosis Commission get their hands on the symbionts, because every symbiont that goes back to the Caves of Mak’ala is a death sentence for a Guardian—our friends, our family, our people. To protect them, I need you to be willing to do whatever is necessary to keep the symbionts from falling into the Commission’s hands. I’m not going to lie to you: this could mean going to jail, or getting injured, or even giving up your life. None of us want it to come to that, but if the Symbiosis Commission doesn’t give us the option, we need to push back. Hard.

“Now is the time for us to take control of our destinies and the future of our people. This is the moment when you decide whether you want to be an outcast—or an avenger. Come with me tomorrow, and we become an army. I can’t guarantee that we will win the first battle, or even the second, but we will win the war.

“Because we have the one thing the Symbiosis Commission will never have: Deep Space Nine. The Bajoran people have welcomed us here, allowed us to make this station our home, our refuge, our sanctuary from the Symbiosis Commission. Now we’ve brought them here and it looks utterly hopeless. The Commission has power, a private security agency, diplomatic sway with the Federation. All we have are the odds against us and this station beneath our feet. But, as any Bajoran will tell you, those two things are enough to bring an empire to its knees.

“Who’s ready to fight?”

—

Lenara and Ezri lie sleepless in bed for the second hour in a row, running through their go-to bedtime rituals: sex, counting Trill farm animals, wrapping themselves in blankets like a living hasperat.

Ezri kicks off her tightly-wrapped covers. “I don’t think swaddling works after the age of three-hundred.”

Lenara sighs. “Do you want to try highlights-lowlights?”

“I guess. You start.”

“My highlight for the day is both symbionts unexpectedly laying eggs. My lowlight is both symbionts slowly starting to die after laying eggs. Your turn.”

“Okay. My highlight is nearly everyone deciding to stay and fight tomorrow. And my lowlight is the horrific anxiety about their blood possibly being on my hands tomorrow.”

Lenara peels back her blankets, pulling Ezri to her chest. “Promise me you won’t die tomorrow,” she murmurs into Ezri’s hair.

“I won’t. Promise me you won’t die tomorrow… or four months from now turn into a hyper-critical jerk obsessed with fixing me?”

“I won’t?”

Ezri glances up at Lenara. “Sorry, that’s the way things turned out last time I had this conversation. I just wanted to cover all my bases.”

Lenara chuckles softly, holding Ezri close. Ezri’s grip on her is almost painfully tight.

They stay like that until morning.


	16. We Ain't Come This Far to Lose

“Any luck reaching Nulat?” Garak asks.

“No.” Julian comes hopping out of the bedroom on one foot, struggling to pull up his left trouser leg. “She’s not answering her comm. What about Leeta?”

“I don’t think she was pleased to hear from me this early, but she agreed to drop Nulat off at Deep Space Nine.”

“Good.” Julian fastens up his trousers. “Now we just have to find her.”

“When was the last time you saw her?” Garak calls over his shoulder as he heads into the bedroom.

“Yesterday morning.” Julian sits on the edge of the sofa to put on his shoes. “She went off on her own to figure out what was going on with the transporter.”

“And you haven’t heard from her since?” Garak yells from the bedroom.

“No. I suppose I should’ve checked in with her, but I got a little sidetracked.” Speaking of… “If you stumble across my underpants in there, just put them in a safe place.”

“If safe places remained on Cardassia, I assure you that you and your underpants would be in one of them.”

Shoes on and smirking, Julian pulls on his shirt, getting caught only once in the cooling mesh interior (a record for him). When he manages to get his head through the right hole (with significant violence done to his hairdo), Garak is standing in front of him looking just as prim and perfectly-coiffed as always.

“How—how do you do that?” Julian stammers. “You were in there for two minutes!”

“A tailor never reveals his secrets.” Garak pats Julian on the shoulder, straightening his collar. “Can you think of anyone who would know where Nulat is?”

“Maybe Alexander.” Julian snaps his fingers. “And his comm should be on.”

Garak gazes out the window at the pre-dawn sky. “Even at this hour?”

“He’s a midwife; he keeps it on all the time in case someone goes into labor.” Julian picks up his comm. “Bashir to Rozhenko.”

“Rozhenko here,” Alexander grumbles in the tone of voice entirely unique to teenagers woken before noon.

“Do you happen to know where Nulat is?”

“No, last time I saw her, she was at a pub near the dorms, drinking with some revolutionaries.”

“And you left her there?”

“What was I supposed to do? She’s like three times my age.” 

“Could you knock on her door? I need to speak to her immediately.”

“Sorry.” Alexander yawns. “I’m not at the dorms.”

Julian faintly hears a woman’s voice in the background. “Oh, no. Lauren didn’t convince you to sleep with her again, did she?”

“No, I’m staying with my patient.”

“Where?”

“Under a bridge.” Julian really should not be left responsible for his friends’ sons. “There’s a whole camp of us getting ready to march on the imperial plaza.”

“Your patient is going marching? She’s four months pregnant!”

“Exercise is very good for late-term Cardassians. It keeps blood flowing to the cervix.”

“Fine. Just be safe. Comm me every hour.”

“You, too.”

“Bashir out.” Julian pins his volunteer commbadge to his collar. “I’ll have to find her myself.”

“Be safe.”

“You, too. Comm me every half hour.”

“Every half-hour. Aren’t I special?”

“Yes.” Julian kisses Garak’s forehead. “You.” And then the tip of his nose. “Are.” And finally his lips.

—

“Let’s go over this one more time,” Ezri says to the crowd assembled in Vic’s. “We have Trill placed all over the station as decoys. The Commission doesn’t know the symbionts are in here, so we don’t want to draw attention to Quark’s by lining up outside. At least not yet. The only people I want in and around Quark’s are my telepaths, who will be working in rotating shifts, using that suggestion-planting trick our Vulcan friend taught you to divert the Commission from Quark’s for as long as possible.

“For the people assigned to habitat ring.” Ezri points to the spot on the map they drew up (in crayon—the children wanted to pitch in somehow). “As soon as the Commission inspects your area, head down to the Promenade, but don’t go to Quark’s until you get the call from Lenara. We’ll need all hands on holodeck then.”

—

Garak waits for Nulat at the shuttle bay just as Julian asked—although he has no reason why Julian would make such a request. He can make an educated guess when he sees Nulat come down the street wearing a pair of comically large sunglasses from her act, Julian trailing behind with his medical kit.

No.

“Hey.” Nulat waves. “I fell asleep on my comm.” She points to the comm-shaped imprint on her forward.

“Hey.” Julian purses his lips. “Thanks for meeting me here. I couldn’t tell you on the comm and I had to see you before—”

“Before?” Garak asks pointedly.

Julian steps closer, ducking his head so that it almost rests on Garak’s shoulder. “The detox hypo I gave Nulat lowered her isoboramine levels. She needs a benzocyatizine supplement every five minutes to get them back to acceptable levels before going into surgery.”

“And you have benzocyatizine in your medkit?”

“No… but I have the ingredients I need to synthesize it on the way to Deep Space Nine.” He pauses. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to go.”

“Then don’t!” Garak hisses.

“I have to. If I hadn’t jumped the gun and gave Nulat a human anti-tox, she wouldn’t be in this position. I have to make this right. She’s wanted to be joined since she was a little girl. I can’t let her dream, and the symbiont, die because I made a rookie mistake.”

Garak closes his eyes, gritting his teeth. This is what he gets for falling in love with an honorable man. (Although, he supposes he shouldn’t judge Julian’s idealism too harshly; Garak was ready and willing to kill Julian and himself to save Cardassia from the Dominion.)

“Promise me you’ll come back,” Garak whispers.

“Promise me you’ll be be here when I do,” Julian replies, his voice tight in his throat.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Keep them safe. Jack and the others. Take care of each other until I get back. Please.”

Garak nods.

Julian reaches for him but freezes, looking around the shuttle terminal at the heavy police presence. He lowers his hand. “Garak…”

Garak surges forward, wrapping his arms around Julian, pulling his head down into a kiss. Stunned only for a moment, Julian grips Garak in a crushing embrace, deepening the kiss.

When they pull apart, Julian whispers into Garak’s mouth, “Please, don’t die.”

—

Lenara takes her seat at what they’ve dubbed “command central”: really, several old computer consoles wheeled into Vic’s under the cover of station’s night. From there, she can see almost the entire station with monitors displaying video from the station’s security cameras (a quick call to the Grand Nagus helped them hack into the system; Quark assures them that the security footage was used for marketing purposes alone) and audio/visual feeds from the inconspicuous cameras worn by resistance members and their allies.

Right now, she’s monitoring the lapel camera affixed to a Bajoran militiaman’s commbadge as he awaits the docking of the Symbiosis Commission’s vessel. (The Bajoran, an older gentleman named Furo Tulat, agreed to wear the camera with very little convincing. 

“Anything for Dax,” he said, winking at Ezri.

Ezri explained later, “We kind of had a thing a few years back.”

“Really?” Lenara raises an eyebrow. “Him and Jadzia?”

“Him and Curzon.”)

Lenara watches as Tabora Dek, head of the Symbiosis Commission, steps onto the station, flanked by two Trill who Lenara doesn’t recognize wearing Commission insignia, and followed by a motley crew of aliens wearing black jumpsuits.

Lenara curses in Trill.

“What’s up, buttercup?” Vic asks, coming up behind her.

“The Commission brought the Hera’jato with them.”

“Are those bodyguards?”

“Worse. A private security force sub-contracted by the Commission to keep order. Since they’re private citizens of non-Federation planets, they don’t have to play by the same rules as law enforcement.”

“Oh, like Pinkertons sent out to do Carnegie’s dirty work.”

Lenara understands less than half of the nouns in that sentence, but distraction has her nodding, “Yes, exactly.”

“You know,” Vic says, sitting on the edge of Lenara’s desk, “the real Pinkertons would send in agents to spy on unions or even sabotage them from the inside.”

That gets Lenara’s full attention. “That would devastate us. We’d be finished.” She shakes her head. “It’s impossible. You and Sybok read everyone for disloyalty.”

“But who read Sybok?”

“Do you have any reason to doubt him—besides his past life as a terrorist cult leader?”

“That’s not enough?”

“Not anymo—” Lenara’s comm chirps. “Phantom.”

“It’s Jake. I think something’s seriously wrong. Kasidy’s missing,” Jake says.

“See,” Vic says.

“What do you mean ‘missing?’”

“I mean, I can’t find her anywhere. She’s not answering her comm.”

“Maybe she’s asleep. Have you checked her room?”

“Yes! That was the first spot I looked. She’s not there and the whole place is trashed! There’s stuff thrown all over the place, like someone came in looking for something.”

The blood drains from Lenara’s face. The Hera’jato have been on the station longer than she thought.

“Do you think something could have happened to her?” Jake asks.

—

Garak watches Julian and Nulat’s shuttle grow smaller and smaller until it is just a dot being swallowed up by the Nagal cruiser’s tractor beam. Around him, the shuttle terminal crackles with life—the racing heartbeat of a city on the move: the frenzied back-and-forth of the bourgeoisie negotiating transport off-planet; the excited, defiant chatter in northern accents; the unmistakable _crack_ of police batons meeting insubordinate skulls.

Once upon a time, Garak would have found the chaos an exciting (if challenging) work environment. So many secrets spill from lips thought unheard in the rabble of a teeming crowd. Now, the noise agitates him like sonic walls closing in. Better to run than to stay; find a safe place to weather the storm and protect his assets.

Garak waits to ensure that Leeta’s ship warps out of sight safely, whisking Julian and Nulat away with it, before beginning the hike back to his car. He hopes it’s still there; walking these streets as a gul would not be pleasant. Almost at the entrance gates of the shuttle terminal, Garak can see his car glimmering in the sun on the crest of a hill, sighing in relief.

“Garak!” a female voice cuts across the crowd. “Garak!”

Knowing the voice to be familiar, but unable to assign a name to it, Garak debates the merits of acknowledging her call. If she wanted him dead, he would be (or she would be, more likely). However, broadcasting his identity to the entire terminal may prove just as fatal.

Garak keeps walking.

The sound of another voice—one he could never forget—stops him in his tracks. He turns around. “ _Morn!_ What are you doing here?”

Morn says nothing, pointing back with his thumb to the woman struggling to keep up with him, the weight of pregnancy slowing her stride to a waddle.

Kasidy Yates-Sisko, wife of the Emissary, and the Emissary’s unborn child. Here. On Cardassia.

Dangerous on any day, but Kasidy chose today.

Garak plasters a smile to his face. “Captain Yates-Sisko, what in the great void of space are you doing here?”

Kasidy holds up her index finger, requesting a moment to catch her breath. “Whew.” She fans herself. “I had a dream last night telling me to come here.”

“ _Here_?”

“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”

“Several things, the first of which being that one should not mistake one’s unconscious fantasies for a vacation itinerary.”

“You know, everyone has been telling me to follow my instincts, ‘listen to my pah,’ and as soon as I do—”

“Kasidy,” he says sharply. “You need to leave now. You are not safe here.” He leans in closer. “None of us are safe here.”

Kasidy looks around the terminal, flinching slightly as a nightstick comes down on an old woman’s head. “You might be right about that.” She looks to Morn. “Let’s go home.”

Morn frowns, opening his mouth to say something, but an announcement from the terminal authority cuts him off.

“ _All inbound and outbound shuttle flights have been suspended for the remainder of the day due to scheduled maintenance. Again: all inbound and outbound shuttle flights have been cancelled due to scheduled maintenance. We advise you to return to your homes, lock your doors and windows, and wait for the maintenance to pass._ ”

What was a manageable (if utterly un-Cardassian) level of chaos erupts into all-out panic as the crowd scatters, running for safety, screaming for loved ones, dodging swinging nightsticks.

Garak pushes Kasidy and Morn out of the terminal’s entrance, saving them from a stampede of Cardassians desperate to get off the streets.

“Can you beam up to your ship?” Garak shouts over the din.

Kasidy shakes her head. “The Xhosa’s transporter is too old for remote transport.”

“Damn.” Garak cranes his neck around the terminal’s gateway, seeing his hovercar still in tact. “We need to get you some place safe. Or safer, at least. I have a car parked about four blocks from here up on a hill. Do you think you can make it that far?”

Kasidy eyes the throngs of people running out of the terminal. “Not before getting trampled.”

“Morn, do you think you’re—”

Morn is, as always, one step ahead. He positions himself behind Kasidy, looking to her for permission before picking her up.

“Promise me you won’t drop me,” Kasidy says.

Morn crosses his heart.

“Fine. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Morn easily lifts her up into a bridal carry.

“On my mark,” Garak says. He watches for a break in the crowd. “Go!”

—

“Wait, wait,” Ezri says. “Go back.”

The Bajoran deputy rewinds the security footage taken from a camera outside Kasidy and Ben’s quarters.

“Stop.”

He pauses the video at oh-five hundred hours—long before Lenara’s hacked feed in Vic’s was up and running.

“Now play. Normal speed.”

On screen, Kasidy leaves her cabin seemingly of her own volition; she’s dressed for the day and even carrying a small overnight bag.

“Where is she going?” Jake murmurs.

Kasidy walks out of frame.

“Play through at triple speed,” Ezri orders. “I want to make sure she doesn’t come back. Good. Wait! Stop. Play that back.”

Two Lurians enter the frame, glancing up and down the corridor before stepping in front of Kasidy’s door. One keeps watch while the other cracks the lock. They go inside.

“Fast forward.”

The timestamp reading an hour after they broke in, the Lurians leave empty-handed, looking considerably sweatier than they had before.

“I think we figured out who trashed Kasidy’s quarters,” Ezri says.

“Do you want me to file a report?” the deputy asks.

“Not yet. Keep following Kasidy in the security footage. Jake, you ask around to see if anyone has seen her. I’m gonna go track down those Lurians.”

—

Silence envelops Garak’s childhood neighborhood. A far cry from where they just came from, the empty yards and dark houses could make one think that Garak, Morn, and Kasidy are the last remaining souls on the planet. 

Normally, Garak would park on the street out front, but one car on an empty street would be a clear giveaway of their location. He pulls into the driveway and taps a remote control device hooked onto his dashboard. The ground beneath them lowers as the car is brought down into the house’s underground carpark—a new addition to the property, a kind of gift from the government to Garak, that he has never used for entirely personal reasons. Overhead, a false pavement cover closes, leaving no sign that Garak’s car was ever there.

When Garak gets out of the car, Jack and the others are (of course) standing in the carpark’s doorway into the basement, waiting for him.

“Where’s Julian?” Patrick asks.

“He had something to attend to on Deep Space Nine,” Garak answers.

“Who’s he?” Lauren asks, ogling Morn as he helps Kasidy out of the backseat.

“That’s Morn,” Garak says, “and this is Captain Kasidy Yates-Sisko.”

“Kasidy’s just fine.” Kasidy turns around, revealing her heavily pregnant belly to the genetically enhanced mutants, all of whom (including Sarina) recoil at the sight. “What? You act like you’ve never seen a pregnant human before.”

“We haven’t,” Patrick says, eyeing Kasidy’s belly warily.

“We spent most of our lives locked in a single room with no access to the outside world,” Sarina explains.

“Oh,” Kasidy says. “I’m… I’m sorry?”

Jack smiles, pointing at Kasidy. “Finally, an apology.” Jack sticks out his hand. “I’m Jack.”

“Hi.” Kasidy shakes his hand.

“These are, in order of personal preference, Sarina, Patrick, and Lauren.”

Kasidy gives a wave that quickly turns into a grimace. She grabs her belly. “Oof.”

Jack and the others jump away from her like she had just transformed into a fire-breathing dragon.

Garak touches her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Kasidy says.

“No, no, no,” Jack says, waving his hands in front of himself. “You are not fine. You are—you are definitely not fine. You are in labor.”

“I’m not in labor.”

“You look like you’re in labor,” Patrick says.

“I’m not in labor.”

“I don’t want to alarm you,” Sarina says softly, “but there is an eighty-six-point-three-four percent probability that you’re going into labor.”

“I’m not in labor!”

“I don’t know why you’re denying it,” Lauren says.

“ _I’m not in labor!_ ” Kasidy snaps. “If I was in labor, Ben would be here.”

A pool of liquid forms beneath her.

“I might be in labor.”

—

On Ezri’s way around the station, asking anyone she passes, “Have you seen two Lurians?” she inevitably realizes that most people wouldn’t know what a Lurian looked like if one bit them. So she substitutes her question: “Have you seen two guys who look like Morn, but with hair?”

This leads her to the habitat ring where she receives a frantic comm from Avin Xostro. “Someone is inside my room,” he whispers.

“Where are you?” Ezri asks.

“In the bathroom. I was washing my hands when they came in.”

“Is the door locked?”

“No, I was the only one home.”

“Okay. Stay there. I’m on my way.”

“Hurry!”

Ezri sprints to Avin’s quarters, pulling out her service phaser before going inside. The living room is torn up just as badly as Kasidy’s; Ezri has a fairly good idea of what the Lurians were looking for. She silently sidles up to the bedroom door, peeking in once, and storms in with her sidearm pointed at the two Lurians tearing apart Avin’s mattress.

“Hands where I can see them,” Ezri orders.

The Lurians slowly drop what they are holding, raising their hands to cheek level.

“Who sent you here?”

The Lurians say nothing, staring at her defiantly.

“What did you do with Captain Kasidy Yates-Sisko?”

Still nothing.

“Fine. You don’t wanna talk? Let’s see what the magistrate has to say about your breaking and entering spree.”

They stand unmoving, still silent.

These guys are tough.

“These men know nothing of Kasidy Yates-Sisko’s disappearance,” Sybok says from behind Ezri, causing her to jump in surprise. “They searched her quarters because the Symbiosis Commission suspected Jake Sisko of harboring the symbionts for you. These two are on their way to tear apart the rooms of every person mentioned in the young Sisko’s article.”

“Well,” Ezri says, “it’s a good thing we caught them before they did.”

Sybok raises an eyebrow.

Ezri thinks as loud as she can, “ _I’m bluffing._ ”

Sybok catches on. “A very good thing, indeed.”

“You’re lucky,” Ezri says to the Lurians. “If you would have laid a hand on the Emissary’s wife, you wouldn’t have made it off this station alive.”

The Lurians share a concerned look, but say nothing.

Words, however, are not necessary when Sybok is the room. “They have plans for the Emissary’s son.”

—

“Well, that’s a fine suggestion, Morn,” Garak spits. “We’ll simply take Kasidy to the hospital. All we’ll have to do is brave the angry mobs of northern dissidents and roving bands of trigger-happy secret police to get there. And I’m sure the few doctors, who didn’t flee the planet and aren’t hiding with their families, won’t be too busy treating critical injuries from today’s violent revolt to deliver a human baby. After all, it will be such a valuable learning experience for them. It’s not every day a doctor gets to assist her first human birth through trial and error. Well done, Morn. Well done.”

Morn glowers at Garak silently.

“I don’t want a hospital birth,” Kasidy says. “Ben and I decided on a homebirth with a midwife.”

Garak taps his comm. “Garak to Rozhenko.”

—

A light flashes on Lenara’s panel, an antique they found in cargo bay two this morning; a relic from the days when Starfleet (and humans in general) were still clinging to analog. Lenara can’t fathom why anyone would want to keep the dusty thing around (maybe Rom was using it for spare parts? or was there some crafty person on the station planning to turn it into a custom end table?), but it does the job well and it’s what they had on hand. The resistance is just lucky that Kahn was alive and working in electrical engineering during the panel’s heyday.

“What’s that mean?” Vic asks, hovering over her shoulder. (This is perhaps the twentieth time he’s asked some variant of, “What’s that button do?”)

“Someone in the field is paging me to put their lapel camera on the monitor.”

Lenara flicks a few levers below one of the monitors and the corresponding camera feed appears, displaying a large room filled with clothing racks and mirrors, a few dress forms left undisturbed yet covered with dust, as if this was once a dress shop whose owner left in a hurry one day and never returned. The camera moves deeper into the space, bouncing up and down in a rough, irregular pace as if whoever is wearing is being dragged by the arm. The movement stops and three figures step into the frame: a vice-commissioner and two Hera’jato agents.

Lenara checks the camera number against her list of names, trying to figure out who’s in that room.

She taps her comm. “Kahn to Dax.”

“Dax here,” Ezri responds.

“The Hera’jato have Jake.”

“Do you know where?”

“Some kind of abandoned dress shop.”

“Right. I’ll put someone on it. Dax out.”

Lenara looks back to the monitor, hoping whoever that someone is gets there fast. The Dominion might have been too smart to lay a hand on the Emissary’s son, but the Symbiosis Commission has very little interest in winning the hearts and minds of the Bajoran people.

“We know the ‘resistance’ is keeping at least one symbiont on this station,” the vice-commissioner says. “Where is it?

“When you asked me to come someplace more private for an interview,” Jake says offscreen. “I thought I’d be the one asking the questions.”

“I think the quadrant has read enough of your imaginative writing.”

“So, as a senior member of the Symbiosis Commission, you officially disavow the contents of my article? You deny that the initiate program discriminates against disabled Trill, that the Commission is staging a massive cover-up of the toxic working conditions faced by the Guardians, that almost half of the Trill population are capable of being joined? Do you deny that?” 

Lenara has to hand it to Jake; he’s been captured by Trill’s shadow government and he’s still trying to collect sound bites. (Lenara wonders briefly if Jake allowed himself to be captured to catch this all on camera, whether out of devotion to their cause or to journalism. Humans, for being so short-lived, can be incredibly reckless in their youth. One might call that “bravery.”)

“I will ask you again,” the vice-commissioner says. “Where is the symbiont?”

“Which symbiont?” Jake asks. “There are a lot of joined Trill on the station today.”

“The symbiont that was stolen from us.”

“Stolen? So, the symbionts, as the Commission understands them, are possessions that can be stolen? Do I have you on record stating that the Symbiosis Commission owns sentient lifeforms?”

The vice-commissioner ignores the question. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, that—”

“Hey!” a voice off-screen—the Ferengi engineer, if Lenara isn’t mistaken—yells. “You can’t be in here. This area’s off limits to the public.” Nog walks into frame, carrying a toolbox. “Come on, Jake. You know that.”

“Sorry,” Jake says. “I was just leaving.”

The camera turns and proceeds out of the dress shop, faintly picking up Nog asking the vice-commissioner and his lackeys to leave so he can perform “routine maintenance.”

On the Promenade, Jake strides away quickly, heading in the general direction of Lysia’s jumja stick cart. The camera’s movement halts abruptly.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” Jake whispers firmly.

“Come with us,” a voice offscreen—a Hera’jato perhaps—says.

“I’m not going anywhere with you. Let go of me!” 

There’s the sounds of a struggle. Jake and the camera come crashing to the ground.

Lenara swears she could hear a pin drop in the dress shop with the Promenade grown this quiet.

Footsteps and an off-center view of Lysia approaching, holding her cooking knife. “Is there a problem, gentlemen?” she asks.

Someone helps Jake to his feet and from this angle, Lenara can see every Bajoran on the Promenade stopped to glare at the strangers who knocked Jake Sisko to the ground.

“No,” the commissioner says, backing away. “No problem.”

—

Garak lowers the false driveway down enough for Alexander to drop into the garage, leaving a superficial scratch on the hood of the car that nonetheless has Garak wincing.

Currently in between contractions, Kasidy takes a long look at the gangly adolescent making a house call, blanching noticeably. “Garak!” she yells, even though he is standing about two feet away from her. It is very, uh, cramped in the garage.

“Yes, Captain?” Garak responds, his ears ringing.

“That’s who’s supposed to deliver my baby?” she whispers. “He looks younger than Jake!”

“I assure you, he’s highly trained. Aren’t you, Alexander?”

Distracted, Alexander blows his dismount off the car, slipping off the trunk onto the cool garage floor. To his credit, he picks himself up remarkably fast and with little fanfare, as if falling down and humiliating himself is a part of his daily routine. He smiles at Kasidy. “I’m certified by the Klingon Board of Midwives and the Federation board. I’ve delivered thirty-two babies, three of whom were human. Normally, I’d give you references, but I think I broke my PADD in the fall.” He pats the medical bag resting on the hood of the car. “But I have all my other stuff with me. Feel free to ask me any questions.”

Without a beat, Kasidy asks, “Do you believe in God, Alexander?”

“Um. Which one?”

“Any god. Any higher power.”

“I don’t know. I mean, my dad raised me to believe in Klingon traditions, and we killed all our gods, but my grandparents did all the holidays with me and I enjoyed that a lot more than the Klingon stuff. But I don’t know if that’s just because I liked dressing up in costumes and getting chocolate money.”

“Outside of religion, do you think things happen for a reason? That we each have a destiny?”

“Yeah. I guess I do.”

“Good. Because I don’t. And I’m going to need someone to help me let the Prophets take the conn on this one, because the only way I see myself being able to give birth, without my husband, in Garak’s garage, is if I think all of this is happening for some greater purpose I’m too linear to understand.”

“I think I can do that.”

“Then let’s do the will of the Prophets.”

“Great, um.” Alexander looks around the one-car garage. “Is there some place safe we can go with more room? What’s behind that door?”

“The basement,” Lauren says.

“We’re not supposed to go in the basement,” Patrick says.

“That’s the one rule,” Jack says. “Don’t go in the basement.”

“Why not?” Alexander asks.

“He won’t tell us,” Lauren says.

“But,” Jack adds, “we think it’s because—”

“It’s fine,” Garak snaps. “You want to go in the basement? Go in the basement. Let’s all go in the basement.” Garak swings the door open, not daring to look inside. “Come on. Go in. What? You’re not scared, are you?” Personally, he’s terrified.

Everyone files inside, Sarina passing him with a sickeningly sympathetic look. His sneer doesn’t move her at all.

He stays there for a moment, holding the door open for no one, alternatingly steeling himself for the inevitable and concocting excuses for why he has to stay in the garage. Forced to admit that this revolution will last longer than the time it takes him to wax the car, Garak steps into the basement.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting: a tombstone, a chalk outline of her body, a flashing neon sign pointing to the exact spot where she died? Not carpet or a kitchenette, a bathroom or a tiny bedroom Alexander leads Kasidy into for privacy.

He supposes there’s some profound metaphor in all this: a new living space in a room he associates with death. The rise of a new Cardassia, carpeting over old wounds.

So why does he feel like he’s lying in her grave?

He chides himself for indulging in such petty grief when so much is at stake, hoping perhaps that if he berates himself enough he can whisk this feeling away and focus on the task at hand. Although that approach has never been very successful in curing his claustrophobia.

Someone taps his shoulder.

“What?” he snaps.

Sarina doesn’t flinch. “We made a supply run upstairs—”

“Great. You’ve probably drawn half the resistance to our door.”

“No one saw us.”

“Are you sure?”

“I know how to be invisible; I’ve spent most of my life doing it.”

“Very well. What did you bring down?”

“Food, water, blankets, things Alexander said Kasidy and the baby need. And I found this.” Sarina picks up a large but surprisingly light trunk from the floor, passing it to Garak.

He flips the top open, finding fabric and a small sewing kit inside.

“The baby’s going to need clothes,” she says. “None of us were ever allowed to have sharp objects, so we never learned to sew. But I thought you or Morn might be able to put something together.”

“Well.” He coughs. Is it dusty in there? “I wouldn’t subject anyone to Morn’s dubious fashion sense—not even an infant—so I suppose I’ll have to tackle this myself.”

“Thanks.”

Garak bows his head. “You’re welcome.”

Sarina goes back to divvying up the goods from upstairs, while Garak sits down on the couch and gets to sorting the fabric.

Maybe some people aren’t threats after all.

In the distance, as if to mock him, a bomb explodes.

—

Nulat takes the first dose of benzocyatizine out of Julian’s hand and jabs it into her neck with the practiced ease of a third-year medical student after a weekend-long bender.

Julian blinks, his eyes wide.

“The corps gave us basic first aid training,” Nulat explains.

“Ah. I guess you won’t be needing me then.”

“No.” Nulat takes the tray full of prepared hypos off of Julian’s lap. “You can take a nap, if you want.”

Julian crosses his arms over his chest, snuggling into his horribly gaudy seat aboard the Nagal cruiser. “Somehow, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.”

—

Once the rocking subsides, Kasidy swings open the bedroom door, clutching her swollen belly. “What the hell was that?”

“Felt like an earthquake,” Alexander says, coming up behind her.

“Seismic disruptor blast,” Garak explains, scooting over so Kasidy can take a seat on the couch.

Morn wrinkles his brow in confusion.

“It’s a type of bomb that targets a planet’s tectonic plates, simulating an earthquake. A Cardassian invention, used exclusively for ground invasions, allowing the troops outdoors to remain relatively safe while the blast widely affects citizens indoors. If I’m not mistaken, an early prototype was used in the initial invasion of Bajor. Off the record, of course.”

Kasidy sits down next to Garak. “But why use it now?”

“Look who’s inside. Government officials.” Garak gestures to himself. “Collaborators.” To Jack and the others. “Cowards hiding.” To Morn. “The only people on the streets right now are members of the revolution.”

“If you’re not with us,” Kasidy says, “you’re against us.”

“Exactly.”

“I wish there was some way of knowing what’s going on up there. I don’t expect the State media will be covering this.”

“Oh, no. Of course, not. As far as the State is concerned, today’s festivities in the capital are merely a parade exalting the Cardassian government. Any reporter who says otherwise will be fired.”

“That’s lenient for Cardassia.”

“No, they will literally be set on fire.”

“That’s more like it.”

“With the State controlling all of the media, I doubt this—” He nods his head toward the vidscreen hanging on the wall in front of them. “—will be broadcasting much more than gardening programs… Unless…” Garak sets his sewing on the end table, getting up to inspect the vidscreen. “Aha.” He adjusts a dial on the side. “This might work.”

“What are you looking for?” Kasidy asks.

“An independent channel. The Bajoran resistance would use ultra-high frequency radio waves to broadcast anti-Cardassian propaganda. I’m hoping a certain military-trained engineer picked up the trick from them.” Garak turns on the vidscreen, filling the room with a static hum that sends Jack, Sarina, Patrick, and Lauren crouching to the floor with their ears covered. “Sorry, sorry.” He dials down the volume, running the frequency turner through the UHF spectrum. “I think I’ve almost…” A grainy feed of a woman walking down the streets appears on the vidscreen. “There.”

Garak returns to his seat next to Kasidy while everyone else gathers around the sofa.

“ _—following the march through the capital city,_ ” the woman on screen says. “ _I haven’t been able to get an interview with any of the march’s leaders; they wish to remain anonymous. However, I have been told that the march will be going through outlying neighborhoods of Gatha, W’rin, and Tudoy on its way to the Imperial Plaza. Any citizens still in their homes are encouraged to join the march as it passes. I could not get a definite answer on what would happen to those who do not join. I will remain with the march for as long as—_ ”

Garak lowers the volume of the vidscreen. “They’re coming right toward us.” He looks to Sarina. “We’ll need guards on the entrance and someone on the escape route.”

Sarina nods. “We’re on it.”

Garak smiles weakly at Kasidy. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.” She returns the smile with more enthusiasm than Garak was able to muster. “The baby’s fine. Alexander says I just need to dilate six more centimeters and I can start pushing. Disregarding the circumstances, this looks like it’s going to be a normal bii _iiiiiirrrrth_.” Overwhelmed with the sudden pain of a contraction, Kasidy grabs the nearest hand (which just so happens to belong to Jack) and squeezes hard.

“That’s normal?” Garak asks warily.

Kasidy nods, her face reddening and her eyes filling with tears.

“Is he okay?” Alexander points to Jack.

Jack nods, his face reddening and his eyes filling with tears. “I’m fine. I don’t feel anything. I’m genetically superior. Pain is beneath me. I could do this all day.”

With the vice grip Kasidy has on his hand, it looks like he will be.

—

Apparently, one of the privileges of being wife to a former holosuite handyman is the ability to bypass Deep Space Nine’s security field and beam directly into the holosuite. A fact that is mildly distressing considering what Quark could’ve been smuggling in (weapons? drugs? those tailored jackets he always wears?), but largely helpful at the moment. Almost as soon as Lenara gives Leeta the coordinates, Nulat and Dr. Bashir safely assemble atom-by-atom into the middle of Vic’s.

Lenara embraces Nulat as Julian greets Vic. (Eyeing the symbiont pool: “I like what you’ve done with the place.”)

“It’s really happening,” Nulat says.

Lenara basks in the glow of the knowledge that—no matter how today ends—she’s at least been able to give her sister this one thing. That’s not nearly good enough for them as a people, but for Lenara as a person, it’s no small consolation.

Girani comes in dressed in surgical red. “The room is ready.” (Somewhere, deep in the recesses of Vic’s program, they located a hospital, where Girani has ingratiated herself as a wrinkly-nosed visiting physician set to amaze the med students with a landmark experimental procedure.)

“Good luck,” Lenara murmurs, giving Nulat a squeeze. “I love you.”

“Love you too.” Nulat pulls away and joins Dr. Girani.

“Do you need any assistance?” Bashir asks. “I’ve performed joinings before.”

“Thank you, Julian,” Girani says. “I’ll let you know if I need another pair of hands.”

Julian and Lenara watch them exit the bar. “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Julian says. “Dr. Girani is a very skilled physician.”

“Thank you.” Lenara turns. “I have to get back to my station.” Lenara sits in front her console, clicking through the security channels with little else to do.

Julian leans against the console, tapping his fingers on its side.

Lenara stares pointedly at his hands.

“Sorry.” He stops. “So…”

“So.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess this is the part where you tell me off for stealing your girlfriend,” Lenara says.

“And this would be the part where you say she was your husband first.”

“Obviously.” Lenara smiles down at the switchboard.

“I’m glad we got that out of the way.”

“So, you and the Cardassian?”

“Yes, me and the—”

The console makes a whistling noise. 

“Hold on,” Lenara says. “We’re being hailed.” She clicks a few buttons. “Phantom. Do you read me?”

A static-y voices comes through the speakers. “ _Garak. Barely._ ”

“Putting you on screen.” The monitor switches to a flickering image of Garak’s face. He must be standing right in front of the camera.

Lenara doesn’t miss how his face lights up when he sees Julian. Or how Julian breathes easier seeing Garak in one piece.

“Garak,” Julian says. “How are you? How are the others? What’s happened?”

“We’re fine. We’re all fine. Nothing’s happened yet, besides a minor terrorist attack that could’ve very well been a failure in the planet’s tectonic stabilization system. I wouldn’t worry.” 

“You wouldn’t worry? Your _chufa_ has gone completely blue; don’t tell me you wouldn’t worry.”

Garak scrubs the knuckle of his index finger along the spoon-like indent on his forehead. “I need you to pass a message on to Jake. Kasidy is here and she apologizes for leaving without telling him.”

“Kasidy’s there? On Cardassia? How?”

“Morn piloted the Xhosa out of spacedock this morning.”

“ _Morn?_ Is everyone on Cardassia but me? What the hell is he doing there?”

“He’s been unusually tight-lipped about his reasoning, but, from what I gather, two Lurians arrived on the station last night who he did not want to run into. Bounty hunters, I think.”

From behind Garak comes a woman’s deep groans followed by a man whimpering.

“What’s that? Is everything okay?”

Garak looks behind. “Everything’s fine. Kasidy is merely… in labor.”

“What?”

“It’s fine. Alexander is here. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine! I’m coming over there now. I don’t know how I’m getting there, but—”

“Julian. Cardassia has cut off all access to the outside. I’m lucky to get this transmission through. There’s no way you’d be allowed planetside.”

Julian grits his teeth. “Be safe. All of you, be safe.”

“We will.” Garak presses his palm flat against the camera.

Julian responds in kind, holding his hand up until the subspace transmission degrades completely.

—

Garak pulls his hand away, taking a moment to compose himself before heading towards the stairwell. Leaning on the banister, Garak strips off his ankle holsters, pulls two phaser pistols from under his tunic, and shakes lose a miniature phaser from under his hair.

“Gather round,” he says, looking to his guards: Patrick and Lauren at the top of the stairs and Sarina and Morn at the garage door. “Everyone take a phaser. Keep them on stun until I tell you otherwise. Don’t shoot until they’ve seen you. I trust you’ll be able to get off a shot before they do. Once they’re down, drag them inside and we’ll use them as hostages. _What, Patrick?_ ”

Patrick lowers his hand. “We can’t use phasers.”

Garak sighs, pinching the bridge of nose. “Please don’t tell me you’ve all developed some sudden moral objection to violence.”

“Hardly,” Lauren says. “We’ll fight whoever’s coming, but we can’t use phasers.”

“We activated a tetryon dampening field around the city this morning,” Patrick explains.

“Energy weapons are useless within a two hundred kilometer radius of here,” Sarina adds.

“Why?” Garak asks. “Why go through the trouble?”

Lauren shrugs. “We thought we’d give the resistance a fighting chance.”

Jack, still tethered to Kasidy, shouts from across the room, “With energy weapons deactivated, the rebels’ probability of beating the police in ground combat increases thirty-four-point-six-five percent!”

“Good for the rebels, bad for us,” Garak says. “How are we supposed to defend ourselves?”

Without warning, Patrick throws a kitchen knife across the basement, specifically at Morn’s face. The pointy end ends up stuck into the wall, pinning down one of the three hairs on Morn’s head.

“Very well,” Garak says. “And for those of us whose parents didn’t buy enhanced hand-eye coordination?”

Sarina tosses him and Morn each a baseball bat.

Garak grips it by the skinnier end, practicing a swing. “Somehow, I don’t think this is what Captain Sisko intended.”

—

With Kasidy found (if not in the best of places), the Lurians in custody, and Jake safe, Ezri starts to make her rounds through each of the decoy stations. Somewhere near station twelve, her comm chirps.

“Dax.” Nothing. “Dax here.”

The receiver comes online, broadcasting a number of faint voices and furious activity. Quark’s voice cuts through, “ _Do you have a warrant?_ ”

Ezri holds the comm to her ear, listening closer. A quieter voice says, “ _Do we need a warrant to look at one of your holosuites?_ ”

Ezri covers her mouth, silencing a gasp. That’s Tebora Dek, head of the Commission.

“ _No,_ ” Quark says. “ _Of course, not. But, in my line of business, it never hurts to ask. Give me a few minutes and I’ll bring you upstairs._ ”

Ezri taps her comm, opening a channel to Lenara. “Mayday. I need everyone in position now.”

She runs to the bar’s back entrance, climbing the stairs two at a time—quite a feat with this host’s short legs. Turning the corner, she finds a few Trill already lined up in front of the door to Vic’s. Ezri stands in front, directing the new arrivals to their spots. She’s only mildly surprised when T’Pring joins them, silently taking a place at Ezri’s side.

Below, as directed by a Klingon ambassador who shall remain nameless, the fireworks begin.

The sound of a glass stein being thrown to the ground. Quark yipping as he’s lifted two feet off the floor by his lapels. The roar: “We had the holosuite next.”

The bargain: “Hey, hey. This wasn’t my idea. Take it up with the Trill.”

A smattering of Klingon invectives and then the prescribed chaos.

Patrons fleeing the bar as Klingons come to blows against Hera’jato. After a few minutes of mortal combat in the name of Curzon and Jadzia Dax, the full Bajoran security force comes stomping into Quark’s, carrying away the Klingons and a few Hera’jota. But not all, as their shoes shuffle up the stairs.

“That was a foolish plan,” T’Pring whispers. “Now you have no deputies to enforce the law up here.”

“That was the plan,” Ezri says. She takes two baseball bats from the duffel bag making the rounds, handing one to T’Pring. “Aim for the kneecaps.”

—

“ _—turning onto Second Street in the Gatha neighborhood—_ ”

Garak mutes the vidscreen. “That’s us. Everyone in position. Remember: quiet. We don’t know how soundproof that false driveway cover is.”

Positioned at the bottom of the stairs (the spot where the Jem’Hadar flung her body), Garak keeps an eye on the vidscreen, seeing before hearing the mob approach his house. There must be thousands of them— _hundreds_ of thousands—and who knows how many more waiting at the imperial plaza. Maybe this rebellion has a chance after all. Hopefully, it doesn’t kill all of them first.

The soundproofing quality of the the false driveway cover is proven poor as the sound of countless feet walking and mouths chanting filter down into the basement. Garak can make out one common refrain, an improvised song, an anthem of sorts: “ _Tiyal nokt hoon, tiyal nokt hoon, tiyal nokt hoon._ ”

Garak snarls in disgust. If this revolution ends up being successful, it will go down in history as the time the citizens of Cardassia told the government to quite literally go fuck itself. This is as bad as, if not worse than, Deep Throat.

The singing seems at least to be distracting the protesters from searching houses. Not a single person has stopped to look through their windows, knock on their door, or inspect the driveway. Garak thinks briefly that they may weather this storm unscathed.

Until mammalian biology rears its ugly head, gifting Kasidy with another pleasant contraction. (Garak hasn’t been keeping track, but it seems like they’re happening more and more often. He hopes this is normal.) Kasidy moans softly, long ago spent the energy for proper whines and groans, before catching herself and acting out all her pain, not verbally, but in clobbering Jack, smacking him over the head, pulling his goatee. For his part, Jack deals with the pain by fervently denying its existence, which appears to be working out fairly well for him. The contraction passes and Kasidy mouths to Jack, “Sorry.” He shoves an ice chip in her mouth.

They repeat this process five more times as the crowd passes by (so many people, such narrow streets), keeping silent until the vidscreen reports that the protesters are clear of Gatha and heading into the imperial plaza.

“I’m really sorry,” Kasidy says hoarsely.

With his free hand, Jack jabs a finger in her face. “I am so glad my girlfriend’s uterus was removed in a misguided attempt to prevent sexual abuse.”

—

Ezri’s pleased to find she’s better at busting kneecaps than popping flies—a fact which she’s sure disappoints Benjamin. She doubts this is what he had in mind when teaching her how to swing.

Ezri takes aim: _swing, crack, oof_. One down and on to the next one.

Unarmed and outmanned, the Hera’jato take heavy losses until they realize how quickly a baseball bat falls out of a broken wrist, how easy old bones snap, how good a wooden bat is at causing concussions.

One by one by one, Ezri’s comrades fall. In the end, it’s just her and five Hera’jato. She stands between them and the door, breathing hard, bat at the ready, one message writ large on her face: if you want in, you’ll have to get through me.

Tebora Dek comes up the stairs, steps over the bodies lying wounded or unconscious on the floor, and stares at Ezri like she’s the vilest insect. “You should have never been joined.” Tebora looks to her goons. “Take this one captive. I’ll need her conscious.”

—

Garak keeps his eyes locked on the vidscreen as Alexander crouches down between Kasidy’s legs.

“Kasidy.” Alexander’s head pops up from underneath her skirt. “You’re ready to start pushing.”

Jack breathes a sigh of relief.

Kasidy bursts into loud, messy sobs.

“What is she doing?” Jack yelps. “What is she doing?”

Alexander rubs her knee. “What’s wrong?”

“Benjamin’s still not here,” she cries. “I thought he would come. I thought if I had enough faith he would show up in time and he’d be here when our baby is born. But he’s not. He’s not coming. And I have to do this alone.”

“I know you want your husband to be here, but you’re not alone. I’m here. Jack’s here. Garak’s here. Morn’s here. Lauren’s…” He cranes his neck, finding Lauren, Sarina, and Patrick gone. “…here somewhere. You’re surrounded by people who care about you and your baby. It’s not as good as having Captain Sisko here, but we want you to know that we’re here for you.”

“What if he never comes back?”

Garak takes a quick glance to make sure nothing is _exposed_ before sitting down on the cushion next to Kasidy. “Captain Sisko is a good father, who any child would be lucky to have. He will come back. He won’t abandon you or your baby or Jake, no matter what god-like alien asks him.”

Morn steps forward, kneeling beside Kasidy. He opens his mouth to speak.

“It’s okay, Morn,” Kasidy say, patting his cheek. “You don’t have to say anything; I know you’re always there for me.”

—

Julian and Lenara guard the door out of Vic’s, baseball bats in hand.

“If they get in,” Julian says, nodding at the holosuite door, “do you really think they’d remove the symbiont from Nulat mid-surgery?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Lenara says.

The holosuite doors open, several Hera’jato agents come bursting in, but Lenara and Julian stand their ground. Vic’s provided reinforcements.

Vic whistles. “Come on in boys.”

A cadre of Las Vegas gangsters barrel out from backstage, jumping into the fray, brass knuckles swinging. Hard light hits hard.

“Turn off the program,” Tebora Dek calls to a sub-commissioner.

Restrained by an agent, Ezri spits out her gag. “If you end the program, you kill the eggs.”

“Eggs?”

“Eighty. In that pool. All sustained holographically.”

“I didn’t think that possible.” Tebora locks eyes with her subordinate. “Leave it running.”

The fight rages and it looks like even holograms can’t hold off the scum the Symbiosis Commission employs. One Hera’jato breaks free and heads to the bar’s exit. Julian and Lenara ready their bats, but lower them when Nulat walks between them in infirmary cotton with an air of serenity Lenara has never seen in her. (Some people, it seems, are just meant to be joined.)

“Stop it,” Nulat says to Tebora. “It’s over. The symbionts you want are joined.”

“To you?” the commissioner snarls.

“To me.”

“Pull the plug.”

Vic and the gangsters and the bar and the pool fades away. The eggs rest helplessly on the ground.

—

In the basement, Kasidy stands over a clean towel, Alexander crouched down in front of her, Jack still tethered to her hand.

“Push,” Alexander says.

Kasidy bears down, grimacing horribly, sweat pouring down her face, unthinkable moans coming out of her mouth, and—how do humans propagate the species if child delivery is so ghastly? What’s the incentive?

Garak has seen people in terrible pain, truly epic pain that Klingons have written songs about, but he has never seen someone live through pain like this.

He clutches his sewing tightly.

On the vidscreen, the rebels take the plaza steps, fighting tooth and nail against the imperial guards. Well, against the imperial guards who haven’t switched sides already.

This all-too-familiar plan of storming the castle and unseating the king shouldn’t work—couldn’t work—on any other planet. Governments have checks and balances, systems of redundancies, caucuses, branches, chains of command with each link an individual actor in the State’s destiny. But not on Cardassia. They don’t call it the Cardassian Union for nothing; there is only one Cardassia, one State, one future. Their strength is not in solidarity, but uniformity. And, as Garak, like all Cardassian children, was taught in school, ‘if one person steps out of line, the State itself crumbles.’

Garak knows his friends in the Federation believe that to be nothing more than propaganda—a convenient lie used to scare citizens into conformity—but, to Garak, that’s probably the most honest thing the Cardassian government has ever said.

As a former member of the Obsidian Order, as someone who dedicated most of their adult life to rooting out the much-dreaded _individualist_ , Garak knows not to underestimate the power of a single person. The Cardassian government, at every level, relies on the total allegiance of those working within her. If a doorman at the plaza turns coat, the entire first floor falls with him, and then second floor not soon after, then the third, the fourth, the fifth, until the entire government falls like a line of dominoes.

No sensible state should run like this. No government should have to turn neighbors into informants (no father should have to turn his only child into a creature of lies) to prevent society from collapsing.

Now, Garak hasn’t completely abandoned his principles; he still believes that any functioning state requires, at least, a secret intelligence service. But logic dictates state resources be used efficiency. Why waste all that manpower on spying on one’s own citizens when one could simply modify one’s method of government to safeguard for internal collapse? Then intelligence officers could devote themselves to their true purpose: covertly manipulating interstellar politics to render the galaxy a more favorable home for the glorious Cardassian Union.

But, no, you suggest something like that over dinner and suddenly you’re exiled to Terok Nor. (That’s not what happened. Not at all. But that’s what Garak will _say_ happened. And that’s what’s most important.)

As the government stands now (however precariously), if the rebels make it inside, the building and the planet is as good as theirs.

Across the room, Alexander tells Kasidy that he “can see the head,” which seems to be a good thing? (Cardassians, of course, come out in semi-opaque egg sacs that burst when the umbilical cord is severed. “Seeing the head” in any stage of labor would be a very bad sign indeed.)

Lauren, Patrick, and Sarina come down the stairs, having been who knows where for the past half hour. They approach Kasidy heads hanging low and hands held behind their backs.

“Kasidy,” Patrick says a little above a whisper.

Kasidy grips Jack’s shoulder with her free hand, and, as if communicating thoughts she is too tired to express, Jack yells, “I’m a little busy right now!”

“We know,” Sarina says, not looking up from the ground. “We just wanted to say we’re sorry.”

“We tried to bring your husband back,” Lauren says.

“We got close to figuring it out,” Patrick adds.

“But then we realized we’d have to change the gravitational constant of the universe to even begin to consider—”

“And then a very strange man appeared from out of nowhere.”

“He offered us the ability to alter the gravitational constant of the universe,” Sarina says, “if we agreed to join his Continuum.”

“He was very attractive,” Lauren says. “Tall. Really knew how to fill out a Starfleet uniform… But we turned him down.”

“The job required a lot of travel,” Patrick says. “We’d like to stay here. Sorry we couldn’t bring your husband back.”

Kasidy takes a break from pushing, sucking on an ice chip while Jack wipes the sweat from her brow. “It means a lot that you tried,” Kasidy rasps.

—

Ezri struggles in the arms of her Hera’jato captor. “ _Turn on the program! You’re killing them!_ ”

Nulat stares down at the floundering eggs, frozen in a kind of parental nightmare. (Those are _her_ symbiont’s children.) Julian and Lenara have to push her out of the way to get to the eggs, scooping them up in their shirts (the only container they have available) and wetting them with water from Lenara’s canteen.

Tebora Dek watches coldly, her face hardened with the acceptance of utilitarian violence demanded by her position. “These eggs may die, but the Symbiosis Commission will live on.”

Ezri wouldn’t believe someone could say something so horrible—believe something so horrible—if she hadn’t thought it centuries ago herself. When Audrid started all this.

Nothing ever changes. Joined Trill are practically immortal, but in all their lifetimes… Nothing ever changes.

“So, I guess what you’re saying is,” Jake says, emerging from behind Lenara’s console, his holocamera fixed on Tebora Dek’s face, “if you can’t have them, no one can.”

Tebora nods at one of her Hera’jato agents. “Get the footage.”

“You’re too late,” Jake says. “This is being sent live to every newswire in the Alpha Quadrant. You’re finished.”

“Please,” Lenara begs, “turn the program back on. You don’t have to do this. You can fix this.”

Tebora’s lips thin into a line. “History will be our judge.”

“You’re a monster!” Nulat flings herself at Tebora, getting in a few licks before being hauled off by Hera’jato.

Ezri watches Lenara and Julian’s shirts dry, knowing that the eggs can’t survive the dry air for long. Girani huddles in the corner, utterly incapable of saving the first eighty lives she helped bring into the world. Even if she had eighty stasis tubes stashed on her person, the procedure would kill the eggs.

It’s hopeless. Nothing ever changes.

And then the bar is back, and the pool, and Vic.

Lenara and Julian don’t miss a beat, racing to return the eggs to their watery sanctuary.

Tebora Dek glares at her sub-commissioner at the holosuite panel. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” the sub-commissioner says. “It just came back on!”

“Holograms don’t just turn themselves on!”

“I’m smarter than the av-er-age hologram,” Vic says.

Just as the last of the eggs drop safely into the pool, Kira and a cadre of Bajoran deputies burst into the holosuite. “Everyone, hands up!” Kira orders. “Drop your weapons.”

The Hera’jato lower their baseball bats to the floor. The deputies start snapping handcuffs on their wrists. Kira takes care of Tebora personally.

“What am I being charged with?” Dek asks.

“Assault, reckless endangerment, conspiracy to commit murder,” Kira rattles off before handing Dek over to a deputy. She turns to Ezri, now free of her Hera’jato captor. “Put your hands behind your back.”

Ezri shrugs. “I was kind of expecting this.” And complies.

Nulat and Lenara come forward, their wrists held together for the deputies. 

“Jake, Bashir, you too,” Kira orders.

“What did I do?” the men ask in unison.

Kira points to Julian. “Beaming onto a Bajoran station without going through customs.” And then to Jake. “Filming and broadcasting a holoprogram without the written consent of all persons present in the program.”

Kira looks to her acting chief medical officer. “Girani, I need you to follow me down to the holding cells. We’ve got a lot of injured locked up on assault.”

“What about the eggs?” Ezri asks, being dragged to the door.

“I got it covered,” Vic says. “You enjoy prison.”

—

“ _The rebels have now secured the fourth floor of the administrative building…_ ” the reporter says, jogging up a flight of stairs.

“The baby’s crowning,” Alexander tells Kasidy. “Just a few more pushes.”

“ _We’re coming up into the fifth floor, where Legate Ferat has reportedly taken refuge…_ ”

“The head is clear. Your baby’s as bald as its father.”

“ _Legate Ferat has refused to surrender himself to the rebels…_ ”

“Now the shoulders. One more strong push. You can do this.”

“ _Assured that his family will remain unharmed, Ferat has vacated his post…_ ”

“It’s a girl.”

“ _We can say with certainty that the old government has fallen with a new government of the people taking its—_ ”

Garak clicks off the vidscreen.

Kasidy cradles the newborn in her arms, tears streaming down both their faces. “Hi. I’m your mommy.”

Even Morn is struck silent, awed by a new life in a new world.


	17. Bring it all on Home and Settle for the Best

“I can’t believe I was in jail for a week,” Julian grumbles, rubbing his neck, sore from the holding cell cots he’s been complaining about for the past six nights.

“Dax, Ezri,” Ezri says to the bailiff. She’s handed back her Starfleet commbadge. “Hey, you got off with a slap on the wrist. I have court-mandated anger management counseling for the next year.”

“Bashir, Julian.” He gets a few small possessions in a plastic bag. “I think we can both agree we got off considerably lighter than Tebora Dek, not to mention a few of our immediate family members.”

They stand off to the side, waiting for Lenara and Nulat to come through.

“How is your dad, by the way?” Ezri asks.

“Good, from what I hear. He hasn’t gotten into any more fights about football so he should be getting out in a few more months… What about Norvo?”

Ezri shrugs. “He’s probably doing better in prison than he was at home. As sad as that is.”

Lenara gets out of the possession reclamation line, followed by Nulat, who didn’t have anything on her at the moment of her arrest. They join Julian and Ezri by the security office door.

Lenara squeezes Ezri’s shoulder. “You ready for this?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

She takes Lenara’s hand and they head out into the Promenade, where they are immediately met by more reporters than Ezri’s ever seen. (Jake, who was released only minutes before them, has a prime spot in the front row.)

Ezri steps forward, facing a flurry of raised hands and shouted questions. 

“I’ll be taking questions in just a minute,” Ezri says over the crowd. “Right now, I’d like to give a statement prepared by my collective during our imprisonment.”

The reporters hush.

“Thank you.” She recites from memory, “Following the horrendous actions of Tebora Dek, and by extension the Symbiosis Commission, we call not only for Dek’s resignation as commissioner, but for the dissolution of the Symbiosis Commission itself. As caregivers for a small but thriving population of juvenile symbionts, we advocate immediately removing Guardians and symbionts from the toxic Caves of Mak’ala, relocating the symbionts to holographically rendered pools and providing treatment to Guardians affected by leurosulphine poisoning. 

“In addition, as an autonomous, diasporic cooperative, we make the following recommendations to inhabitants of the Trill homeworld: Point one, place the responsibility of coordinating and conducting joinings entirely in the hands of the Guardians. Point two, abolish discriminatory policies against reassociation and exclusionary requirements for the initiate program. Point three, offer services, including identification and training, for the latent telepath community. Point four, begin an investigation into the Symbiosis Commission.

“Our community will be following those same recommendations. We hope that, in time, our two people can become one again.”

—

Julian settles down in the seat next to Jake, who is tapping away furiously at his PADD.

“You know,” Julian says, “you could have stayed on the station to work on your next Trill article; I’m sure Kasidy can make it back to the station fine with Morn helping her.”

Jake looks up from his PADD. “Are you serious?”

“No. I guess I’m not.” Julian pulls his hastily-packed carry-on onto his lap, rifling through for a spare subspace PADD.

“Hey.” Jake pulls Kukalaka out of the bag by his soft, furry paw. “Is this for the baby?”

“No.” Julian snatches the faded, worn teddy bear back, jamming him into his bag. “That is for me.”

“You’re really not coming back, are you?”

“No. At least, not permanently.”

“Does this have to do with you being naked at Garak’s house?”

“That, among other things… Ha!” Julian holds up a subspace PADD like a trophy before linking it into the the small subspace server the charter shuttle makes available for its passengers. “We should be able to catch Garak’s speech.”

Julian flips the PADD on, bringing up the Federation newswire. They’re just in time to watch Garak step up to the podium in a brightly-colored, high-necked tunic. New fashion for a new world, Julian supposes.

“ _Before I begin, I would like to thank the members of the foreign press for making today such an historic occasion,_ ” Garak says, smiling down at the reporters below. “ _Under our new provisional government, reporters from off-planet are allowed, for the first time, to attend state press conferences, as well as move freely within our borders. This event is just the beginning of a new era of transparency and friendship._

“ _The people of Cardassia genuinely hunger for the rest of the galaxy to know us as we truly are—not as the conformists found in Federation textbooks, or as the poor, huddled masses in relief aid advertisements. But as a people just as varied and diverse as any other._

“ _We disbanded the previous imperial government precisely because they failed to recognize and serve the entire Cardassian population. For far too long, the Cardassian government has concerned itself with preserving an elite in the central continent’s major cities, neglecting the needs of the poor and those residing on the northern and southern continents. As the son of a maid, an unwed mother, I grew up knowing far too well that my opportunities in life were inherently limited by my birth._

“ _I can say on this new Cardassia, that is no longer the case. I remain, as ever, Cardassia’s humble servant. Questions?_ ”

—

Ezri places her commbadge on Kira’s desk right next to Benjamin’s baseball.

Kira’s eyes travel from her PADD, across the desk, to Ezri’s commbadge. “That’s the second one today. Am I doing something wrong?”

“No.” Ezri’s hands fidget behind her back. “It’s not you, it’s me… I mean, it’s not you, it’s Starfleet. And me. I can’t be in Starfleet anymore. I can’t do what I need to do to lead these people without getting into trouble every once in awhile. I don’t have the luxury of behaving like a Starfleet officer anymore.”

“But are you still planning on living on the station?”

“Yeah. I know that might be a little awkward, but I—”

“Not at all. It might be a good thing.” Nerys smiles. “You know, the station counselor Starfleet assigned us just quit. The Bajoran militia is in the market for a replacement. Maybe a private contractor.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Yeah. Of course, you’d still have to interview.”

“I’m not worried. I have an in with the boss.”

Twenty minutes later, Ezri is clipping a Bajoran militia commbadge to her collar and skipping out of ops. She tracks down Lenara in Vic’s, sitting by the symbiont pool.

“You know we’re not supposed to be in here,” Ezri chides playfully. “Not unless you have eighty more siblings hiding out to join to these babies.”

“I know.” Lenara sighs. “I’m saying goodbye.”

“How’s Vic taking it?”

“Well, he made a veiled threat about joining a folk band to sing songs about parental abandonment and generational disillusionment, but he perked up once I said he could comm me day or night.”

“Ugh.” Ezri grimaces. “We’re going to have a sixty-year-old lounge lizard hammered-hailing us every Friday night.”

“How’d Nerys take the news?”

“Good.” Ezri points to her new commbadge. “I’m a private contractor now.”

“She let you keep your job?”

“On a part-time basis. The militia doesn’t have deep enough pockets to pay me full-time, but I’ll still have enough hours to keep up with my patients, which is the important thing.”

“What about your research?”

“It’s Starfleet property now. Someone will pick up where I left off eventually.”

Lenara stands up, rubbing Ezri’s arm. “I never meant for you to give up your career for this.”

“I know.” She cups Lenara’s cheek. “Know that I don’t resent you at all. For any of this. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me, okay.”

Lenara kisses Ezri’s palm.

“My life may not be turning out the way I thought it would when I entered the Academy, but it’s a good life. It’s _my_ life, Ezri and Dax’s. Until the day I saw you, I thought I could go on living the life I’d planned before I was joined: become a counselor, get a boyfriend, rise through the ranks. But that was Ezri Tigan’s life, it didn’t belong to me anymore than Jadzia’s or Curzon’s. But you proved me wrong; being joined changes everything. You turned my life completely upside down… and I can’t wait to spend the rest of it with you.”

—

Morn leads Julian and Jake down to the basement, where Kasidy and the baby have been staying for the past week. (Morn, apparently, has been riding the couch upstairs after spending a night in Lauren’s bed.)

Jake practically jumps down the stairs to get to Kasidy. “Are you okay? Is the baby okay?”

“I’m fine.” Kasidy rocks the baby, bouncing her up and down as she walks. “We’re both fine.”

Jake wraps an arm around her shoulder. “I don’t know why you would leave the station in the middle of the night like that, but I’m glad you did. I can’t imagine would have happened to you if you were in bed sleeping when those Lurians broke into your quarters.”

“Try not to think about.” She pats his cheek. “Do you want to hold your sister?”

“Yeah. Of course. Are you sticking with Rachel Yvette?”

“Yep.” Kasidy gently passes him the baby. “Support the head. There you go.”

Julian brushes past them, leaving the little family to their moment as he looks for Garak, whom he was told would be down here. It doesn’t take long to find Garak on the couch, sleeping sitting up with a half-finished onesie on his lap and the new free press muted on the vidscreen.

With any other lover, Julian would stroke their hair or kiss their cheek to wake them up, but he’s honestly too afraid of Garak jamming that sewing needle into his eye to try any of that.

“Garak,” he says softly. “Garak.”

Garak wakes with a start, waving the needle in front of himself like a sword.

“Garak,” Julian laughs. “It’s me.”

“Oh.” Garak blinks several times. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to waking up in public.”

“In public?” Julian kneels down in front of Garak, placing his sewing on the end table. “This is your house.”

“I suppose it is.”

Julian rests his head on Garak’s lap and finds a semi-comfortable sitting position on the carpet. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Garak strokes his hair.

“For leaving when you needed me. When all of you needed me. Not just Jack and the others, but Alexander and Kasidy, hell, even Morn. I thought they needed me on DS9, but there’s nowhere else in the universe that needed me more than Cardassia. Than this house.”

“I think we managed well enough without you.”

“‘Managed well enough’ isn’t good enough for me. You deserve better than that. I should have been here to assist Alexander, to make Kasidy more comfortable, to treat Jack’s broken hand… It didn’t hit me until I was standing around, utterly useless, waiting in Vic’s while you were weathering a revolution and Kasidy delivering a baby, it didn’t hit me until then that hanging around Deep Space Nine wasn’t going to bring me my family back.

“For months, I thought if I stayed in the same place, did the same job, played the same holoprograms, kissed the same girl, that feeling of belonging would come surging back. That I would somehow feel just as connected and loved and part of something as that last night we spent together in Vic’s. But that’s not how it works. Sometimes, you just have to move on, and when you do you discover that the people you loved were never really gone from you to begin with. Even if they’re on Earth or Qo’noS or outside of linear time. Family is always there with you.”

Julian takes Garak’s hand, interlacing their fingers.

“I promise—” He kisses Garak’s wrist. “I promise to be here with you and the family you’ve given me here. They’re a gift, one I can never repay. And… I love you for it. That and a million other reasons that scare the living daylights out of me.”

Garak doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything but the familiar, “My dear doctor.” It’s enough.


	18. Epilogue: Phone Rings, Door Chimes

“I’ll get it!” Julian calls. Not that anyone else is exactly rushing for the door. Garak is off basking somewhere, Nulat and Alexander are downstairs playing that two-dimensional dance game, and Jack has sealed Lauren, Patrick, and Sarina in the kitchen with him on some “chemistry” project. 

Julian is not feeling excluded at all. Not at all. Not one bit. (He likes chemistry, too.)

He hustles to the door, ready to kiss Kasidy’s cheek, hug Jake, and hold Rachel for the first time in over a year.

Instead, Julian opens the door and stands in silent horror as unexpected guests fill his foyer. Joseph Sisko shakes his hand. Ezri and Lenara hug him. Worf nods at him. Lwaxana smooches him on the mouth. A little Betazed boy kicks him in the shin.

By the time Kasidy, Jake, and Rachel reach him, all Julian can do is whine helplessly, “Why?”

“Sorry,” Kasidy mouths, stepping inside.

Julian briefly considers running away before closing the door and facing his guests. “Hi. Welcome to Cardassia.”

“I hope you don’t mind us tagging along,” Ezri says.

“When we heard the Xhosa was coming to Cardassia,” Lenara says, “we couldn’t resist visiting Nulat.”

“Oh, no. Of course, I don’t mind,” Julian says.

“And you know, then we had to tell Worf, because he was on the station,” Ezri says. “I don’t think it would be very fair for us all to come for a visit and not invite Worf to come see Alexander.”

“Oh, right.” Julian scratches the back of his head. “That would’ve been _rude_.”

Joseph scoops up Rachel, who’d been standing on her own, gripping her grandfather’s pant leg to steady herself in Cardassia’s foreign gravity. “And I couldn’t let my grandbabies go to Cardassia without their Grampa there to protect them,” he cooes. “Could I? No, I couldn’t.”

“No.” Julian sighs. “You couldn’t.”

Julian looks to Lwaxana, who is wiping a smudge off the Betazed boy’s face—her son, perhaps? From that disaster of a marriage a few years back?

Julian coughs. “And Ambassador Troi. What brings you to fair Cardassia?”

Lwaxana takes Joseph’s free hand, gluing herself to his side like a swooning schoolgirl. “Well, you know how newlyweds are. You can barely keep your hands off each other let alone be on separate planets.” She pauses, as if listening in on someone, before tsking, “Oh, Jake. Such an archaic attitude about older people and sex. Especially for someone with your taste in women.”

“Right.” Julian clasps his hand in front of his chest. “Who’d like a tour?”

—

Julian tries to take them into the kitchen—it really is a nice kitchen—but the door is locked shut. Which is interesting, because as Julian knows, that door doesn’t have a lock. He raps on the door.

Jack, Sarina, Lauren, and Patrick poke their heads out of the kitchen, resting one on top of the other. Their faces are covered with what Julian hopes is flour and not some kind of explosive.

“What?” Jack snaps, but softens when he sees Rachel. “Hey, it’s the baby.”

Pretty soon Jack and the others are out of the kitchen, circled around Joseph and Rachel, each taking turns holding the toddler, who, for her part, seems to be enjoying the attention.

Setting Rachel down on the ground, Jack finally asks, “Who are these people?”

“Guests,” Julian answers. “I was just giving them the tour.”

“Have you showed them the…” Patrick lifts his eyebrows.

“Oh, no. I haven’t. Come along this way, everyone.”

Julian leads them out into their workspace (only slightly modified since the first time Julian saw it; now Patrick’s teddy bear has a friend, and there’s a sewing table for Garak), where he flips on the main holographic console.

“This is what we call the Holowomb.”

“The hollow womb?” Ezri asks.

“No, no. The _Holowomb_. It’s the first fully holographic, fully customizable uterus. It operates completely independently of replicated matter and any organic lifeform, except for the implanted embryo, of course. Obviously.”

Julian paces around the hologram. “Now I know what you’re thinking: how does it work? How can hard light sustain and create life? Good question. The answer, I think you’ll find rather interesting. The idea actually comes from the symbiont pool you were keeping in Vic’s. Now, as we all know, Quark cut off the replicator line to Vic’s right after the war ended to save money. So, you either have to buy your own food and drinks from Quark’s or eat hard light at Vic’s. But even with no replicator line, the symbionts in Vic’s flourished. Why? Because holographic matter functions like normal matter as long as it is being projected to do so. So, for instance, you could remove both of my lungs this instant, and I could breathe perfectly fine with holographic lungs, as long as, of course, I was positioned under a holoprojector.

“This is all fairly easy to extrapolate from the existing data. But, what the symbionts at Vic’s proved is that non-holographic matter is capable of incorporating holo-matter to such a degree that the changes wrought by that holo-matter become, after a certain point, permanent. This is why the symbionts didn’t shrink as soon as you brought them out of Vic’s. And that is essentially the same reason why you can take an embryo, put it inside the Holowomb, and have a non-holographic infant in a matter of months.

“Which is particularly important in a Cardassian context, where eighty-three-point-nine-five-four percent of the population is experiencing fertility issues due to the Dominion’s bombardment of—

“Yes, question?”

Lenara lowers her hand. “The methodology for your experiment is… fascinating. But I think we’d all like to see the results.”

“Oh. You—you want to the see the—of course. Absolutely. Follow me.”

He takes them out into the backyard where Garak is stretched out asleep on a rock slab with Silara lying on top of him.

“Aw,” their guests coo.

Garak opens one eye. “Please, don’t sneak up on me while I’m sleeping. Especially when the baby is in the room. I don’t feel like explaining the bodies to my constituents.”

“Has she dropped off?” Julian asks.

“No.” Garak holds Silara to his chest as he sits up. “I think the sun is still too stimulating for her to fall asleep.”

Julian comes closer, taking Silara with a kiss to her forehead. “I think the sensory issues were to be expected.” Julian turns around to find his guests and housemates crowded around him. “Er, this is Silara.”

“Can I hold her?” Ezri asks.

“Yeah.” He holds the baby out. “Just be careful.”

Sarina winces as Ezri takes Silara. “Support the head.”

“Keep her head elevated,” Jack warns.

“Don’t let her—” Patrick starts.

“I’ve held babies before,” Ezri says.

“But you haven’t held our baby,” Lauren says.

“Ours is better,” Patrick adds.

“Half-mutant, half-Cardassian,” Jack says. “Can’t find that anywhere else in the universe.”

“So.” Worf looks between Sarina and Lauren. “Which one of you is the mother?” Ezri’s heel comes down hard on Worf’s toes. “What? I was merely asking a question.”

“Neither of us are the mother,” Sarina says.

“Silara doesn’t have a mother,” Julian says. “That’s the beauty of the pre-implantation system we’ve devised. It takes nothing more than two cheek swabs of diploid cells to make a viable embryo. Which is critically important on Cardassia where infertility not only interferes with the body’s ability to create and sustain pregnancy, but also the body’s ability to generate gametes. Irreversible sterility being one of the most common effects of—”

Rachel sticks her hand over Julian’s mouth and shouts what Kasidy told Julian is her new favorite word: “No!”

Julian lowers her hand. “I think Rachel is a little tired of the science talk. Drinks, anyone?”

As they head in for drinks, Patrick murmurs, “ _Our_ baby wouldn’t get tired of science talk.” 

—

Garak crosses his arms over his chest. “Why are you really here?”

Lenara swallows her bite of tiabo. “To see Nulat.”

“And that’s why you two are outside in the scorching Cardassian sun with me rather than inside with her.”

“Fine.” Ezri puts down her jivar. “We came to ask you a favor.”

“Then ask. You came all this way.”

“Julian told us about how Jack and Patrick and Lauren figured out a way to reclaim land poisoned by the Dominion using ancient Cardassian technology. We were hoping they could do something similar with the Caves of Mak’ala.”

“We’ve had our best scientists on it for almost a year, but they’ve come up with nothing,” Lenara says.

“I thought the holographic caves worked just as well as the real ones,” Garak says.

“They do,” Ezri says. “But the Guardians don’t think it’s fair that the symbionts have to abandon their home because it’s toxic to Trill. I mean, obviously, not being surrounded by people slowly dying in their name has been good for the symbionts’ spirits, as telepaths—that’s largely why they’re maturing and reproducing so quickly—but, ideally, we’d want them to live in their home environment with healthy, caring Guardians.”

“We’ve already brought this up in front of the senate allocations’ committee,” Lenara says, “and Trill is prepared to give Cardassia two industrial, solar-powered replicators in exchange for your help.”

Garak takes a sip of his froteen juice. (He never drinks anything hard after basking; the alcohol cools his blood.) “I’ll look into it. Although, I should warn you, it could take some time to train someone to use the Hebitian technology.”

“Can’t you just give us Sarina or one of the others? Heck, we’d even take Julian,” Ezri says.

Garak shakes his head. “We have a new baby in the house; none of us are going anywhere. We barely get our work done as it is without adding another responsibility.”

Ezri smiles. “At least you’ve got plenty of help.”

“Oh, yes. Tell me that when you’ve got five humans standing over your shoulder, telling you how to properly descale an infant.”

—

Dressed in her indoor clothes, insulated against the humanly-tolerable climate controls, Silara takes Rachel’s poking and prodding remarkably well. Of course, Kasidy is keeping a very close eye on Rachel’s grabby hands.

“She ate a bug yesterday,” Kasidy remarks.

“A bug?” Julian asks. “How’d she get ahold of a bug on DS9?”

“Quark.”

“Of course.”

“I was bringing her through the bar to take her to see Ben.” (With Kira and Lenara’s help, Kasidy created a short holoprogram of Sisko’s old recordings so Rachel can see, hear, and touch her father. So she’ll know him when he returns. There was a minor station scandal several months ago when Rachel’s first word was “dada” to holographic-Sisko. Several Bajorans thought it was a religious miracle; Kasidy just thought it was incredibly, albeit unintentionally, hurtful.) “I turn my back for one minute and she takes a tube grub off a waiter’s tray, sucks the whole thing down. And the worst part is Quark charged me for it.”

Julian laughs. “Of course. He’s Quark.”

Rachel’s index finger dives dangerously close to Silara’s left eye, prompting her thin secondary eyelid to close.

“Come on.” Kasidy drags Rachel away from the baby by the elastic waist of her pants. “I think that’s enough. Go play with Jake.”

Rachel toddles across the meticulously child-proofed sitting room, settling down beside a highback chair to fuss with Jake’s shoelaces.

“I can’t believe how much she’s grown,” Julian says.

“I know. It all goes by so fast. It’s hard to believe that she was born in this house nineteen months ago—or however long it’s been on Cardassia.”

“One year and two days.”

“Oh, we should have came earlier. We all could’ve had a little Cardassian birthday party for her.”

“You didn’t miss much. Typically, Cardassians don’t celebrate on the day of their birth.”

“I should’ve figured Cardassians wouldn’t throw birthday parties.”

“No, they do. They’re just never held on their actual birthday. You see, traditionally, the anniversary of one’s birth is meant to be spent in quiet contemplation over one’s changing role as a citizen. The day after is spent honoring one’s parents. And the day after that is when the birthday party is held.”

“So, two days after the birthday?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“You don’t have anything planned, do you? Because I’ve put you out enough with all the extra guests tagging along.”

“It’s fine; don’t worry about it. I was just a little surprised earlier.” Julian stretches his legs out in front of him on the carpet, reclining back on his elbows. “As for any Cardassian birthday parties that may or may not be in the works, you really ought to be talking to Jack, not me. After all, _I’m_ not Rachel’s godfather.”

“Still bitter, Bashir?”

—

“I’m not surprised I didn’t win,” Jake says, keeping an eye on Rachel playing with his shoelaces. 

(She’s at the age now where anything is fair game to be stuck in her mouth, her nose, her ears. Ezri hopes this is just normal human curiosity that Rachel will grow out of and not a Torias-type fixation. It took perforating an eardrum with a self-sealing stembolt for Torias to stop jamming objects in every hole in his head for the amusement of others. As Ezri recalls, it wasn’t so much the pain or the blood or the temporary hearing loss that made Torias kick the habit, but rather having to explain to a doctor why he, a twenty-four-year-old graduate student of Trill’s most prestigious physics program, shoved a stembolt in his own ear. That conversation seemed to put things in perspective for Torias.)

Jake continues, “The Flamel Prize is basically the Carrington Award of journalism. No one who’s been in the field for less than half a century even has a shot at winning.”

“Still,” Ezri says, “it must’ve been nice to be nominated.”

“Yeah.”

“Perhaps you would have won if your topic was more interesting,” Worf says.

“Sorry you found the liberation of my people so dull,” Ezri says.

“I did not say it was ‘dull.’ I simply meant that Jake’s next article might make a better impression on the nomination committee if it featured a stronger central character: a hero, one of an honored legacy fighting against terrible odds to win glory and honor for themselves and for their people. Someone like Alexander.”

Ezri chuckles, softening at Worf’s earnest pride in his son. “If you think Alexander’s such an epic figure, why don’t you write him a poem or something?”

Worf stares at her, agog. “A Klingon father does not write his son a poem.”

“Are you sure?” Ezri smiles mischievously. “Because I think it would mean a lot to him.” Ezri sits up in her chair, looking across the room to the corner where Alexander, Lenara, and Ambassador Troi watch Nulat give little Barin Troi an impromptu rian’kora lesson. “Hey, Alexander,” she calls.

“Dax!” Worf hisses.

“Your father—”

“No, do _not_ —”

“—wants to—”

“I am an ambassador for the Klingon Empire and I demand that you—”

The lights turn off, saving Worf from any further embarrassment as the room fills with the harmonic buzz of a pitch pipe, followed by perhaps the loveliest rendition of “Happy Birthday to You” Ezri has heard since Marilyn Monroe visited Vic’s. 

With the afternoon sun streaming through the windows, the dimmed lights obscure little, acting more as a formality in a human tradition Dax rather enjoys.

Joseph wheels out a two-tiered cake topped with one glowing candle. Jack, Patrick, Sarina, and Lauren flank him, singing so intimidatingly well that only Lwaxana dares join in. (She is, unsurprisingly, not a very good singer.)

When the song ends, Jake holds Rachel up to blow out the candle, telling her to make a wish. After a few puffs, the flame flickers out and—

A light brighter than white envelops the room for a half-second, like the flashbulb of an old camera, and fades away.

Ezri panics just for a moment, thinking some kind on neutron bomb detonated in the city. 

And then she sees.

“Ben!” Kasidy gasps.

Benjamin is wrapped in hugs on all sides from his father, his wife, his son, a daughter he’s never met, and a particularly hands-y stepmother.

Even as he grips his family tight (with the exception of Lwaxana), Ben glances around the room, completely disoriented. He looks to Dax, a constant in his life for decades now. “Where am I?”

“Cardassia,” she answers.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m afraid not,” Garak says. “Although I’m sure the religious and socio-political repercussions of your reappearance on our shores will be most dire, I’d like to think the look on Colonel Kira’s face when she finds out will be of some, small consolation.”

Ben sighs. “I hadn’t even thought of how much this would upset the Bajorans.”

Ezri smiles. “Maybe next time you leave linear time, you’ll reappear in a more considerate location.”

Ben kisses the top of Rachel’s head. “Oh, I’m not leaving again. The Prophets couldn’t drag me away if they wanted to.”

Ezri smiles at Lenara across the room. “I know the feeling.”


End file.
